The corners of his eyes crinkle. “I suppose I never thought about it. What’s interesting to you about them?”
My cheeks grow hotter. No one’s ever asked me about my profile name before. “The colors. The gray that turns almost to green. The cumulonimbus clouds that stretch for miles but are fluffy on top.”
“Cute,” he says.
Cute? Before I can decide whether I’m touched or insulted, he continues.
“Why fifteen?”
“Because fourteen was taken.”
He regards me for a moment, his expression seeming both puzzled and amused. “I’m tagging you.”
“On a photo of oysters?”
“Sure. We’re sharing them, so why not?”
My nerves jump. Being tagged with Braden Black is not something that was ever even a minuscule dot on the radar of my life. For a second, I worry that Addison will see the post, but then I remember she only follows ten people, and I’m not one of them. Is Braden? I doubt it, given she seems to detest him.
He puts his phone away and nods toward the oysters. “Ladies first.”
Should I slurp or use the little fork? If I use the fork, will I look like a novice? I finally decide on the fork because that’s how I always eat oysters. I never quite got the hang of slurping. I choose one of the smaller ones and squeeze a few drops of lemon juice on it. Then I scoop it expertly on the fork and into my mouth and take a sip of my martini. The martini was a good idea after all. It’s much better with oysters than Wild Turkey.
Mmm. Delicious.
“Just lemon?” Braden says.
I swallow. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”
“I like a little cocktail sauce.”
“Amateur,” I say before I realize the word came out of my mouth.
He regards me, his eyes hypnotic. “We’ll see who the amateur is by the time this night is over.”
Chapter Four
My heart thumps wildly. The innuendo isn’t lost on me.
Cory comes back to take our dinner orders. I flash back to an employment interview workshop in high school. “Order the fish of the day, broiled,” the teacher said. “If you’re nervous and you drop some on your clothing, it won’t leave a stain.”
Union Oyster House doesn’t have a “fish of the day,” so I decide on the pan-seared haddock with mashed potatoes and fresh vegetables. Nothing to get me in too much trouble there.
Braden orders fried oysters. He wasn’t lying when he said he was in the mood for them.
“Do you enjoy your job, Skye?”
I’m about to answer when my phone dings. I quickly grab it out of my purse. It’s blowing up with notifications.
“Congratulations,” Braden says. “You’re famous.”
Because he tagged me in the post of the oysters, I’m being notified every time someone makes a comment.
“Turn off notifications,” he says, “or it’ll drive you bananas.”
I follow his advice and then tuck the phone back in my purse. Wow. A few people know I’m Addison’s assistant, but this is ridiculous.
“You going to answer my question?”
“Sure. What question?”
“Do you enjoy your job?”
“Yes and no.”
“Meaning…?”
“I get to take pictures, which is what I love to do, but I’m not exactly photographing anything significant.”
“Addie trying on scarves isn’t going to make it into National Geographic,” he says. “You’re right about that.”
I warm a little. Is he making fun of me? Plus, how did he know that having a photo in National Geographic is my dream? Ever since I saw that gorgeous photo of the Afghani girl with the searing green eyes in a book of magazine photographs, I’ve wanted to capture something that profound.
“I’m making good contacts.”
“That’s true. Maybe you can become the official photographer for Bean There Done That. Getting those sprinkles of nutmeg just right on cappuccinos.”
Yeah, he’s making fun of me. Addie was right. He’s kind of a douche. A gorgeous douche, but still a douche. “Did you really ask me to dinner to diss my job?”
“That wasn’t my intention,” he says, his blue eyes on fire. “I asked you to dinner because I really want to fuck you.”
Again with the thighs quivering. I’m wet already. I can feel it.
“How am I supposed to respond to that?” I ask, willing my voice not to shake. I’m not completely successful.
“I wouldn’t be where I am today if I didn’t go after what I want,” he says, his voice slightly lower and raspier.
I get that. I do. I’m pretty enough and I have good boobs, but this man can have anyone. He’s way out of my league. So why does Braden Black want me? I desperately want to ask that question, and I’m desperately afraid at the same time that if I do, he’ll realize his ridiculous mistake and send me home.
I compromise and say nothing while my cheeks warm and my heart flutters.
He raises one eyebrow. “You can tell me you’d like to fuck me, too.”
I resist the urge to squirm in my chair. Does he really want me to say that? Even weirder, I actually want to say it.