“Really,” I say with a firm nod, taking her arm since she won’t take mine. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll text someone later. Let them know where I went.”
I escort her out of the building before she can say another word.
I scroll through my phone and find the address to a restaurant I know is not too far from the party and then enter it in my Uber app. The car appears before us in less than two minutes, and he drops us off at the restaurant in another five. Somehow in those last five minutes, the air becomes bitterly cold, and when Cannon opens the car door for me, a shiver takes over my body just before I exit.
Cannon, of course, notices.
“Cold?” he asks as I stop to stand beside him, his voice a low, deep murmur that warms my insides. I’m not wearing a coat—a rather stupid decision, but going out this evening had been such a last-minute thing, I completely forgot.
“A little bit,” I tell him, sounding as if I’m in a daze.
I blame the daze thing on having him so close, especially in the confines of the small car. His body radiates heat like a furnace, so maybe that’s why the night air felt so chilly.
“Come here,” he tells me as we head for the front door of the restaurant. He lifts his arm, swoops me under it and tugs me close to his side. “I’ll warm you up.”
I say nothing as we make those too-few steps to the door, savoring the sensation of having him plastered next to me. He’s solid as a rock. All muscle. So tall I barely reach his shoulder—I barely reach his chest—and I’m not what I would call a short person.
But Cannon Whittaker? He makes me feel tiny.
He drops his arm from my shoulders as he reaches for the door to open it, and I ignore the disappointment crashing through me as I walk through the door first. The disappointment disappears in an instant, though, when I feel his large hand gently press against my lower back. He guides me toward the front desk, both of us smiling at the hostess watching our arrival. Within seconds, she’s ushering us deep into the restaurant, to a small table that’s near the back of the room. We sit and she hands the menus to us, listing the specials for the evening before she dashes away to take care of another customer.
I can’t recall a single thing she said.
“I’m starving,” Cannon says as he wrenches open the menu, his gaze eagerly scanning the restaurant’s offerings. The menus are tall, encased in black leather, and Cannon’s hands span practically the entire thing.
I stare at them, his long fingers, his wide palms, completely entranced. Are his hands smooth or rough? I’d bet rough, since he handles footballs all day long.
Does he literally handle them all day long? My thoughts are exaggerating, I’m sure. Doesn’t deter me from thinking his hands are manly, though. I bet if they’d smooth over my dress, they might snag on the fabric. Does he have callouses?
A little shiver moves through me. None of the men I’ve dated have rough hands. They definitely don’t have callouses. The men I date either work in offices or lounge around spending their family’s money.
“Have you been here before?” he asks a few seconds later, knocking me from my lusty thoughts of his hands. On my body.
“Oh.” I startle, shake my head. Swallow once. “Yes, I have,” I say as I nonchalantly open the menu, my gaze going blurry when I try to read my options. I’m not particularly hungry. Too distracted by the man sitting across from me. “Once.”
“Was it any good?” His gaze never strays from the menu, which makes me want to laugh. He’s not even paying attention to me, yet he’s all I can think about.
“Delicious,” I say with heavy emphasis, finally causing him to finally glance up. His gaze meets mine, warm and friendly, and he winks before he returns his attention the stupid menu.
I’ve always thought winking was silly. But I like the way he winked at me just now.
I like it a lot.
“I came here on a date,” I continue, trying to draw his attention back to me. “My ex-boyfriend brought me here.”
Well. A tiny fib. He wasn’t my ex-boyfriend. More like a man I went on a couple of dates with. One day, we just stopped texting each other. And that was that.
“An ex?” Cannon asks the menu. “How long did you two go out?”
I’m tempted to say years, but that might be a bit much. “Months,” I tell him, which isn’t exactly a lie. Our three dates—or was it four?—spread out over about six weeks’ time.
“So are you telling me the restaurant holds a lot of memories for you?”
He is still looking at his menu, and I’m now annoyed. What’s so fascinating about his meal options?
“Yes,” I tell him, snapping my menu shut and slapping it onto the table. “I’m remembering all the good times with Richard as we speak.”
This, this finally gets Cannon’s attention. His gaze meets mine, his expression…amused? “Richard? That’s your ex’s name?”