I wonder where he is now. I hope wherever he is he’s happy. Or healing at least.
“If you’d just wanted me to meet you at your house, you could have told me, and I could have walked over,” I tell Nick.
“That’d have been a pretty long hike dressed like that,” he says, his eyes sliding down my legs to my tiny heels.
I hate myself for blushing under his golden-eyed gaze.
“Why’d you ask me about Emilio’s if we’re not going there?” I ask him as he opens the door and holds out a hand to help me out. I take his hand against my better judgement, not willing to risk falling, even if my heels are tiny.
It’s the first time our palms have touched, and I feel a jolt throughout my entire system at the contact. I try, unsuccessfully, to hold in the gasp that escapes me.
His eyes darken as he pulls me closer to him, never releasing my hand.
Did he feel it too?
I swallow nervously and take a step back from him, though he refuses to release my hand.
“You’ll see,” he finally says by way of answering my question.
I let him lead me into his home, my curiosity getting the best of me.
I’m instantly awed by the wide foyer that showcases a curving staircase that looks like something out of a Disney movie. The interior has the same theme as the exterior. Stone and clean lines that are somehow rustic and contemporary all at once. I can instantly see the perfect blending of masculine and feminine styles.
“Wow,” I breathe.
“My thoughts exactly,” Nick says lowly, and I glance at him to find him looking at me, studying my face.
I bite my lip nervously and look away, hating the way he makes me feel all bunched up inside.
“Come on, kitten,” he chuckles as he moves closer to me, putting a hand on the small of my back to usher me forward. I try to ignore the way something melts within me when he calls me “kitten.” All I can focus on is how tiny I feel with his huge hand spanning almost all the way across the small of my back as he leads me into the dining room.
Where there’s a freaking chef waiting for us. Complete in a little white chef hat and everything. All he’s missing is the little black mustache.
I glance at Nick quizzically as he pulls out the chair to the right of the one at the head of the table that’s big enough to seat at least twenty people. He pushes the chair up under me as I sit, his hand grazing over my bare shoulder before he takes his own seat at the head of the table. The chef rattles off the name of each course, all of which is covered with a stainless steel dome, before he bows out and retreats back into the kitchen.
“Emilio’s was the only acceptable restaurant I could find anywhere within a hundred mile radius of here, and I knew it was probably too far to drive on a first date, so I hired one of the chefs to come out and cook us a personal dinner,” Nick offers by way of explanation as he pops the cork on a bottle of red wine and proceeds to pour us both a glass.
I blink at him, thinking of how incredibly thoughtful, if extravagant, that is before I suddenly process everything he said and hone in on one thing. “You say ‘first date’ like you think there will be others.”
Nick lifts the dome to the first course to reveal soup and salad, and I follow suit with mine.
He seems entirely unconcerned with my comment as he answers, “Yes, there will be subsequent dates, kitten.”
I can’t hold back the snort of derision that leaves me. “Keep dreaming,” I mutter.
He ignores my unladylike behavior, though, and continues talking like I didn’t just have a rude outburst that my mother would be ashamed of.
I stab a bite of my salad and shovel it into my mouth, the tang of the perfectly balanced vinaigrette exploding on my tongue.
“How was your day?” he asks me politely. “Save any more turtles?”
I look up at him sharply to see the humor in his eyes.
“I’m glad I can be such a source of amusement for you,” I say curtly.
He laughs outright at that, only stroking my ire even more. I hate being teased. I absolutely hate it. I always have.
All throughout school I was teased for my red hair. Teased for having a temper to match. When I got older, the comments turned more savage with some of the meaner boys accusing me of having a “fire in the hole” even though I was so uptight I was considered a prude by most of the school. That’s part of why I never could keep a boyfriend. I wouldn’t put out.