Amanda’s always just been real. Something I’ve always appreciated.
We arrive at the steakhouse and it’s packed, even for a Tuesday night. I place my hand at the small of Amanda’s back as we make our way to the hostess stand, my fingers tightening ever so slightly on the fabric of her dress. She glances over her shoulder and smiles at me, and seeing that smile is like getting a direct shock to my heart, making it pump wildly.
Not over her. That’s the thought that keeps running through my head at having her so close, having her with me, going out with her like we do this sort of thing all the time. Like we’re still an actual couple.
I’m not over her.
The woman working behind the hostess stand blinks up at me in recognition, but she plays it cool as she leads us to our table, seating us in the more private area of the restaurant. Amanda is practically bouncing in her seat as she flips the pages of the menu, and I finally have to ask her why she seems so excited.
“I haven’t had steak in forever.” She sends me an almost resigned look. “I go on dates, and they all want to feed me exotic food.”
I hate hearing her talk about going on dates with other men, but I do my best to stuff my possessive feelings down deep. “What do you mean, exotic?”
“Himalayan, Vietnamese, Brazilian, Ethiopian. One guy took me to a place that specializes in Russian cuisine.” She wrinkles her nose. “I think they’re trying to impress me, when really I’d rather have a steak. Or even pizza.”
“Pizza?” I fucking love pizza. Who doesn’t?
“Yeah, but I
get enough of that because it’s cheap, you know? I don’t indulge in steak dinners much.” She scans the menu, her expression giving me hungry vibes. Not of the food kind either. “Oh my God, it all sounds amazing. Look at the sauce options. And oh, they have lobster too!”
Her excitement over the menu is cute. She’s cute. So damn cute. “Get whatever you want.”
“Anything I want?” She raises her delicate brows, her tone, her entire being, flirtatious. “You sure about that, Tuttle?”
She hasn’t called me Tuttle to my face yet—or via text, FaceTime, whatever. It feels…weird. I used to tell her to call me Jordan since no one else did. Only Amanda. “What exactly do you want?” I ask her, my question like a dare.
“Whatever you’re willing to give me,” she answers, her voice soft.
Damn. She keeps this up and I’ll give her the whole damn world. Anything she wants. Everything I have.
Will be hers.
Dinner is torture. He orders a very expensive wine and I drink a lot of it, though he doesn’t have a drop. I semi-sober up once my steak dinner finally arrives, and it is by far the most delicious meal I’ve ever had.
Jordan watches me avidly as I eat, his gaze skimming my face, lingering on my lips. Emboldened by the wine, I moan a little every time I take a bite, letting him know just how much I’m enjoying myself without saying a word, and it’s turning him on. I can tell by how dark his eyes get as he continues to watch me, how tense his shoulders become. It’s a powerful feeling, knowing that I hold this man, this extremely gorgeous man who’s a freaking celebrity all over the country, maybe even the world, in complete thrall while I eat my dinner.
Totally ridiculous, right? God, it’s the best feeling ever.
I consume everything on my plate, leaning back in my chair once I’m finally finished, satisfaction running through my veins.
“Best steak ever,” I declare.
“You enjoyed it, hmm?” He lifts a brow, that same stupid sexy move he used to pull on me when we were eighteen and I was captivated by every single thing he said or did.
“Definitely.” I nod toward his plate, which is also completely empty, save for a sprig of some unfamiliar herb lying discarded. “You liked yours too?”
“This place is my favorite.”
I prop my elbow on the table, resting my chin on my curled hand. “Is that why you brought me here? To share your favorite restaurant with me?”
He stares at me from across the table, his jaw working, like he’s trying to figure out what to say next. There’s a candle flickering in the votive between us, casting his gorgeous face in shadowy planes and angles, and I realize he’s so close I could reach out and touch him. Trail my fingers across his jawline, cup his cheek, trace his lower lip…
Oh God. I sit up straight, my head feeling a little too wobbly. I’ve had sooo much wine. That must be it. That’s why I feel so much…
Yearning.
Longing.