“A workaholic.”
“That’s right. It was a large triple shot. That says you are running on fumes and trying to stay focused. Oh. And you don’t take no for an answer.”
“The coffee told you I don’t take no for an answer?”
“No. That part I gathered from you not taking no for an answer.”
We break into mutual laughter that fades into a hint of a smile on his lips, the air shifting around us, thickening. There is a pureness to our shared desire that I decide is created by us having no past to color the way we feel about each other.
“Let’s talk about your coffee,” he says, putting me in the assessment hot seat.
“You didn’t drink my coffee,” I point out.
“Actually, I did.”
“What?” I ask in disbelief. “Wait. You drank my coffee after I left?”
“That’s right.”
“On purpose?”
“On purpose,” he confirms.
“Why?”
“Because I was left curious about the woman who ordered it and your drink, like mine, says things about you.”
I can’t believe he drank my drink after I left or that I’m about to invite him to look deeper into who I am. “And what exactly did it say about me?”
“It said—”
“I have a Cognac and a wine,” a waitress announces, leaving me hanging on his words.
“Wine for the lady,” Shane instructs and we both lean back to allow her to deposit our drinks in front of us, giving me the opportunity to discover our waitress is a gorgeous redhead, with deep cleavage exposing DD breasts, which make my D cup feel like an A.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks.
“I haven’t looked at the menu,” I say, reaching for it, and glancing at Shane. “You probably know what you want.”
“Indeed,” he says, the look in his eyes sizzling, as he adds, “Very decisively.”
I flush, quite certain, that yes, he has noted my brief walk down insecurity lane, and while I’m embarrassed, I am quite charmed at the way he’s made sure I know my concern was without merit. I shut the menu again. “What do you recommend?”
“They’re well known for their brown butter ravioli,” he replies, “which I have every time I visit.”
“It’s amazing,” the waitress interjects. “Melt-in-your-mouth good.”
“You had me at brown butter,” I say. “And anything with pasta and cheese, makes my favorite foods list.”
“Three check marks on the list,” Shane says, gathers our menus and offers them to the waitress. “Two of the house raviolis it is then.”
“Got it,” the waitress confirms. “Any drinks, aside from what you have, with your meal?”
I shake my head but Shane motions to my wine. “Try it and make sure you like it.”
It’s an order, which seems to come naturally to him, but it’s also him actually caring that I’m satisfied. I take a quick sip, and the fruity sweet liquid is pure perfection. “It’s great,” I tell him, and eye the waitress. “I love it.”
“Well then,” she says. “I’ll put the order into the kitchen.” She departs and Shane reaches for the glass I’m still holding, covering my hand with his. “May I?”