Page 40 of A Really Bad Idea

He clears his throat. “He’s requested I announce him, as I would any of your dates.”

I lean toward the wall with my hand still on the intercom. “I don’t have dates, Salvatore.”

He speaks low into the intercom, “A lady never tells a man her personal business. Best to keep him guessing, is what my wife always says.”

I smile. “I’ll be right down.”

The elevator ride feels like it’s slower than usual as I descend from the fourteenth floor. My clutch is snug in my hands as I tap my fingers on the gold jewels on the front.

Looking at my reflection in the steel doors, I see an attractive woman with curls running over her nearly bare shoulders and a heart-shaped face with a straight nose that’s accented with big brown eyes. I push my shoulders back into a confident stance, taking a deep breath in and holding my chin high. My lightly glossed lips are set in a pout. I look like a duck, and it makes me giggle at myself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to never take myself too seriously. A good laugh is enough to make me realize that everything will work out.

The doors open, and I step out into the lobby and straight toward the man waiting. As he stands in the middle of the room, his head is down as he adjusts his watch.

He’s wearing dark jeans with a navy-blue V-neck sweater over a button-down with the collar open at the top. A gray blazer and black shoes complete his ensemble, making him look like he came straight out of a GQ catalog. But it’s not the clothes. No, it’s not the clothes that have me walking toward him with a staggered step.

It’s the eyes.

He looks up in slow motion, and those piercing emerald-green eyes are gazing at me hard, taking in every inch of me. From my toes peeking out of my jewel-encrusted heels to up my legs, up to my knees where the silk of my dress rests against my skin. His eyes rake over my hips and up the curve of my waist and my full breasts, stopping at my clavicle for just a second before settling on my mouth.

It makes me stare at his lips and how they’re parted, looking soft on that hard jaw that is squared out like granite.

“I’ve always loved you in that dress,” he says as he pulls me in for a hug. His lips graze my cheek and give a second kiss to my jaw.

I shiver. “You look handsome yourself.”

He places a hand on my arm and runs it over the gooseflesh that’s appeared on my skin. “You’re freezing.”

“I forgot my jacket,” I say despite how warm I feel. I turn toward the elevator.

“Here, take mine.” He slides his off and wraps it around my shoulders.

I revel in the soft fabric and woodsy scent of him.

“Is that better?”

“Much,” I breathe.

Christian places a knuckle under my chin and lowers his eyes to mine. I hesitate as I move my own from the marble floor of the lobby and up into the swirl of his eyes.

“There’s no reason to be nervous,” he whispers. “It’s just me. Your Christian.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “You’re right. We’re just two friends having a simple dinner.”

He pulls my chin closer, his lips close to my own. “I hate to break it to you, but we’ve passed simple. Tonight, I’m not here as a friend. I’m here as a man taking a beautiful woman out to dinner.”

If I were another type of woman, I’d believe this was more than a means to an end. But I’m me, and he’s him. The fairy tale will be fun for a few dates, but I’ll keep myself checked into reality. Lord knows, I’ve lost myself to whimsy before.

“Come on, Casanova. Take me and this dress out to dinner.” I grab his hand and pull him out of the lobby where he has a driver waiting.

I slide into the SUV and look out the window as it travels down Central Park West, not asking questions until we get to the Brooklyn Bridge, and then I look over at Christian in confusion. His elbow is resting on the door with a finger tracing his lips. He doesn’t respond to my curiosity.

The SUV exits toward the waterfront. Nestled under the stone pillars of the Brooklyn Bridge is a restaurant, The River Café, seated on an old barge. From here, the city across the East River looks as magnificent as it does on television—all darkly silhouetted skyscrapers illuminated with golden lights, enhanced by the reddish pink of the setting sun. Forget wine and dine. The view is enough to make you want to go home and make love.

“Breaking out the big guns,” I mutter, taking his hand as he escorts me outside of the car and into the landmark restaurant I’ve always wanted to dine at.

The maître d’ escorts us to a table by the window, and I look out at the Manhattan skyline mirrored in the harbor, reflecting in its still wake as the moon casts a glow from the cloudless evening.

I take in the candles flickering against the crisp white tablecloth, basking a warm light on my dinner companion. “Is this where you take all your women?”