Something shifts in his expression. “We could do that, but I was thinking about dinner.”
“Dinner?” I cast my gaze down before I look back at him.
He just invited me to dinner. I’d classify that as an actual date. A rush of heat
overwhelms me and I know that my cheeks must be turning a soft shade of pink.
Dammit, Chloe. Get a grip. It’s just a date.
“If you’re not comfortable with that, say so.” He taps the middle of his chest. “It may bruise my heart, but I’ll get over it.”
I press the toe of my boot against the corner of the barista counter. I should say no. Dinner can lead to more and I’m carrying so much baggage that he’d get lost under it.
“One meal, Chloe,” he goes on. “I didn’t ask you to marry me.”
I laugh. “I know.”
“If you feel like having dinner with me tomorrow, meet me at The Hot Oven Pizzeria on Broadway.”
I nod.
“I’ll be there at around six.” He gives me a chaste kiss. “I hope to see you there, Chloe Jones.”
I don’t say anything in response because my heart won’t let me. I have more than a day to think about it. I just hope that tomorrow at six, I make the right decision.
Chapter 17
Evan
I slide my phone back into the front pocket of my pants. Why the fuck is there no trace of the Chloe Jones I’ve been fucking? I searched for more than ten minutes and I came up with nothing.
There are a lot of women named Chloe Jones. A lot. When I narrowed my search to those who lived in New York State, I still couldn’t find her.
Not one of the images online for women with that name matches the woman I met outside the hotel. She’s an enigma.
Her brother popped up on dozens of sites. He’s a retired professional poker player. Naturally, not one of the articles I read about him mentioned his family.
“What’s with you?” Jordan rounds the corner and approaches me. “You look like you’re ready to bite someone’s head off.”
I’m disappointed, not pissed.
“You look like you’re waiting for a flood.” I gesture toward his pants. “Have you grown an inch or two since you had those hemmed? Nice socks, by the way.”
He looks down at where a good three inches of his pale pink socks are on display between his shoes and the bottom hem of his black pants.
“My tailor made a mistake.” He tries to tug down on the fabric covering his thigh. “He gave me a good deal so I thought, what the hell, who will notice?”
I shake my head. “Did you pop in to see Mrs. Walton?”
“I did.” He moves closer to me when an orderly passes us pushing an empty gurney. “I concur with your diagnosis.”
I pat him on the shoulder. “That’s all I need to hear. I’ll stop in to her room to discuss treatment options.”
I start to move past him but he stalls me with a hand to my forearm. “You didn’t need to play third wheel at lunch the other day. Kylie and I would have been just fine on our own.”
He would have been, Kylie not so much.
She was nice to him; nicer than I thought she’d be but she cut the lunch short when she got a text message.