Neevah
“Is this your first time?”I ask in the silence the hostess leaves behind.
This is as awkward as a Real Housewives reunion special.
“I just meant . . .” My laugh tinkles nervously like a fifteen-year-old on her first date. “Have you been to this restaurant before?”
This is not a date. Canon Holt is not your Thanksgiving date. You will not lust after him . . . anymore.
“No.” He studies his menu, his brows furrowed in some serious concentration. “Jill suggested this place and reserved my table.”
“She reserved mine, too. So sweet of her.”
The look he flicks at me over the edge of his menu says he doesn’t agree. “She needs to mind her damn business. Meddling.”
“Meddling? I don’t understand. She . . .”
She reserved us tables together at the city’s self-proclaimed most romantic restaurant.
“Oh.” Shit. “You don’t think she . . . that she thought we—”
“Uh, yeah. I do think she thought we.”
My face catches fire, mortification filling every inch of my empty stomach.
“Canon, I’m . . . I had nothing to do with this. I promise I was clueless.”
“I know that. For an actor, you’re not very good at faking.”
“Should I be insulted by that?” I ask, smiling in spite of the awkward situation.
“No. Some actors don’t know when to stop pretending. You do. You’re as clear as glass and don’t dissemble well.”
“You mean everyone can read my emotions easily?”
“I don’t know about everyone.” He holds my eyes over the menu. “I can.”
That makes me highly uncomfortable because my emotions are in constant turmoil around this man, and right now, on a scale of deep respect to raging hormones, I’m at a twelve. To think I’m transparent to him, that he might see . . .
“I should go.” I stand, tossing the linen napkin onto the table.
“Sit down.” The gravel-rough command in his voice sends a shiver clamoring up my spine.
“I don’t think so. I really should—”
“And where will you go? What will you eat for Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Um, In-N-Out Burger?”
His low-timbred chuckle, accompanied by that rarest of phenomena, a full-fledged Canon Holt smile, catches me where I stand, trapped between coming and going.
“Neevah, sit. It’s one meal. We’ll survive it.”
I check his expression to see if he means it, but unlike me, Canon is opaque glass frosted by his iron control. So I’ll take him at his word.
I sit and pick up my menu.
“So, what looks good?” I ask.