Sophia’s pupils dilated. Her cheeks flushed pink, and her chest rose and fell quickly while I undid the buttons of my vest and took it off. She felt the same dark, sexual energy I did. It charged the air like an impending storm. All the conditions aligned to cause lightning.
I folded the vest and set it beside my tie on the desk. When I reached for the jacket—
“Open the top few buttons of your shirt.”
She said it in a rush, perhaps hoping I wouldn’t pick up on the excitement lacing her words. It was flattering and enjoyable that I had this effect. Her eyes fervently followed my fingers as I undid my collar, then released the button below it.
I didn’t want my question to be solely about my shirt, and I loaded the word with seduction. “More?”
Her chest halted as she held her breath tight in her body. Oh, yes. She wanted more.
It took her a century to answer. “Uh, put the jacket back on.”
I did.
A three-piece suit wasn’t standard for me—some days I’d forgo a vest. But I believed every suit required a tie. This state of underdress left me feeling exposed and my armor incomplete. Yet Sophia gazed at me as if the years separating us and my past did not matter. She forgot where we were and succumbed to the emotion channeling through her for one brief moment.
Pure lust.
It coated her expression and heated her eyes, causing me to answer in kind.
I’m wearing this for you, I hoped my expression read.
“Good,” she breathed. “You look good like that.”
“Thank you.”
She nodded, turned back toward the shelves she’d been arranging, and promptly ran into the end of the couch. Embarrassment held her shoulders tight to her ears, but she didn’t glance back to see if I’d noticed. She was wise enough to know I had.
It was disappointing she wasn’t treated to my victorious smile, but I let it go, knowing this wouldn’t be her only opportunity to see it.
Marquee was a modern fine dining experience. The space was minimalist, and there was no color palate by design. The room and tables were white and the chairs black. Only the fresh flowers in the centerpieces gave the eye some relief from the restaurant’s starkness.
The food was the focus here, as it should be. The head chef had received rave reviews in The Boston Globe and Bon Appétit, plus a James Beard Award. I stood in the sleek waiting area in front of the host’s station and perused the accolades framed on the wall while I waited for my date’s arrival.
Heels tapped out a hesitant pattern as they approached. “Mr. Hale?”
Evangeline Gabbard was a pretty brunette. She wore a long-sleeved black lace dress, nude colored heels, and deep red lipstick. Anxiety wove through her eyes, but I didn’t yet know if the cause were the evening, or the man she was about to dine with. Perhaps it was a mixture of both.
“Macalister,” I announced, doing my best not to sound cold.
“Evangeline.” She took the handshake I offered and flashed a shy smile. “Sorry for the clammy hands. I’m a little nervous.”
“There’s no need to be,” I scoffed.
Her fixed smile tried to mask the uncomfortable reaction she wanted to have, and my heartrate stumbled. The very first words out of my mouth had already been a misstep. I needed to correct.
I forced a light tone. “I am nervous enough for both of us.”
She blinked her surprise and laughed softly. My lie had put her at ease.
There was no spark in our handshake. It was professional, ordinary, and forgettable. I gestured to the host we were ready to be seated.
“Please follow me,” the man said.
We wound through the dining area to a table near the center. Was this luck, or had Sophia requested this one specifically for maximum visibility? I pulled out Evangeline’s chair, and once she was seated, I took the one across the wide table from her.
When she set her clutch on the table, I noted the wedding ring still decorating her left hand. She should have left that at home, because it made it harder to sell this as a date.
“The wine list, sir,” the man said, handing me a leather-bound book. “Terrance is our director of wine and can make some excellent recommendations if you’re interested.”
I took it from him only to speed along his departure.
“Would you like some?” I asked her.
“Yes, please.” She couldn’t have sounded more grateful if she’d tried, like she was desperate for the alcohol to take the edge off. “Which do you prefer?” she asked. “Red or white?”
I held the book out for her. “Get whatever you’d like. I don’t drink.”
Her eyes widened, and her gaze went to the cover of the wine list as she took it from me. “Oh, you don’t?”
She peered across the table like something was wrong with me, and irritation heated my blood. When I told people I didn’t drink, they made incorrect assumptions. I didn’t struggle with addiction—this was merely a choice I’d made years ago. The unasked question lurked in her eyes and it forced me to answer.