SUNDAY NIGHT, DINNER

Andrew took a sip of his wine, watching in bemusement as Georgiana chatted animatedly with the server.

Not about the specials, not about the wine list, but about the man’s new Yorkie-Poo, which, based on the description, Andrew could only assume resembled a fancy rat.

Just when he thought the other man would do something crazy like take their food order, Georgiana demanded pictures.

Andrew sat back in his chair in resignation as the server pulled an iPhone out of his back pocket and proceeded to show Georgiana an endless slide show of a small dog named Macaroon, who apparently had just been gifted a brand-new sweater. Ridiculous. No wonder Georgiana was enthralled.

But whereas just a few weeks ago Andrew would have been irritated by such frivolousness, tonight he found he was . . . charmed.

The woman was just so damn vivacious, drawing people to her with every breath. Everyone liked Georgiana.

And she’d chosen him. Somehow, this gorgeous, compelling creature seemed to want to spend time with him.

But for how long? He knew there was a ticking time bomb, but she didn’t. At least, he didn’t think she did. He’d know more when he could actually speak with her, rather than have to listen to a discussion of gluten-free dog treats.

She caught his eye and winked, and instantly he felt a bit of the tension in his shoulders ease. Georgiana looked beautiful tonight, but then, he supposed she did every night.

Her long hair was pulled back and piled high on her head, with a few pieces falling to her shoulders—shoulders he knew were the perfect combination of sharp angles and soft skin and tasted like vanilla.

Andrew was suddenly glad that she was wearing a sweater. He didn’t want any other man knowing those shoulders the way he did. He didn’t want to share any part of her, even with a flamboyant waiter who Andrew was reasonably sure had no interest in any of Georgiana’s body parts.

Shit. He was screwed. How had this woman gone from being the aggravating menace of his early mornings to the center of everything?

Since the second she’d walked out the door for brunch this morning, he’d been painfully conscious of the clock, obnoxiously aware of how many hours it would be until he’d see her again.

Finally the server moved away. He’d forgotten to take their order, but that suited Andrew just fine. He didn’t mind prolonging their dinner.

Then Georgiana’s tongue flicked out, catching a drop of wine, and suddenly Andrew minded the delay very much. He wanted her in his bed, her hair on his pillow, her soft curves beneath him.

She was watching him. “You’re scowling, Andy.”

“Perhaps because you’re calling me Andy?”

“I can’t help it. Punishment for you still calling me Georgiana, even after we—”

He lifted his eyebrows. “After we . . .?” Then he blinked, stunned by what he was seeing. “Georgiana. Are you blushing?”

She took a sip of water. “No. It’s just hot in here.”

He leaned forward. “Bet we could make it a lot hotter if we left here.”

“Don’t even try. You promised to feed me. No handsy stuff until I get fed. Did you see the fish and chips go by? Glorious.”

“Sure, if you enjoy food fried in trans fats,” he said.

“Um, everyone enjoys those foods,” she said, opening the menu.

Andrew took another sip of his wine. “Do your weekly brunches with your parents include similarly caloric nightmares?”

“Depends—it changes every week. Used to be my mom was pretty health-conscious, always worried about my dad’s cholesterol, but she’s loosened up in recent years. Maybe she decided life’s too short to not indulge in a croissant from time to time.”

“You enjoy these . . . brunches?”

She looked up and smiled. “You sound a little like someone who’s trying to understand a foreign culture but can’t figure out the weird customs.”

“I don’t deny that nearly everything about you is a bit foreign to me, Georgiana.”

“Well, no longer calling me by my formal, full name might be a step in the right direction. Speaking of names, what’s your middle name?”

“Michael. Why?”

She shut the menu. “Because I like to know these kinds of details about the men I’m sleeping with. Favorite color?”

“Don’t have one. I’m not a child.” He felt a sharp nudge against his shin. “Did you just kick me?”

She smiled serenely. “Favorite color?”

“Red.”

“Interesting. Why?” She picked up her wine and tilted her head.

Andrew sighed. “Is this what it’s going to be like, then?”

“Is this what what’s going to be like?”

Dating you. He almost said the words, but bit them back just in time. He didn’t like the way the thought made him feel vulnerable. He hadn’t felt this unsure of himself in a very long time, and he didn’t enjoy it.

He was, however, enjoying her. And therein lay the problem.

“What’s your middle name?” he asked, to distract her.

“Frances.”

He resisted the urge to smile. “Georgiana Frances? Surely your parents were expecting a different sort of child.”

“I know, right? I was named after both grandmothers, and I have to assume everyone thought I’d be very tidy and studious.”

“Bet you weren’t,” he said, enjoying the mental image of what she must have been as a wildly charming handful of a little girl.

“Not even a little bit. I was most definitely the one who wanted princess parties and asked for a pink pony eight years in a row.”

“So pink’s your favorite color, then?”

“No, red,” she said, sitting forward and looking delighted. “Do you know what this means?”

“You have a temper?”

“No, it means we have something in common. Can you even conceive of it?”

“Honestly?” He sipped his wine. “Not really.”

“You know what I like best about this whole situation?” she said with a smile. “I like that you haven’t changed even a little. I like that you’ve seen all my bits, and you’re still crusty.”

He stifled a laugh. “I’m not sure which is more disturbing: the word bits, the word crusty, or the fact you used them in the same sentence.”

“So, I talked to Hailey,” she announced, without any conversational segue whatsoever. Typical.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, tensing a bit. He didn’t particularly like that he’d been very close to using a perfectly nice woman in order to get the upper hand on the woman he’d really wanted.

“Yep, we met up for coffee after brunch, and I explained everything. I didn’t want her to find out from another Page Six post.”

“When you say you explained everything . . .?”

For the first time since he’d known her, something that looked like uncertainty flashed across her face.

“I mean, I just—I told her that you and I . . .” She floundered.

Andrew felt a little stab of relief to know that he wasn’t the only one out of his element here.

Georgiana blew out a breath. “Okay, so do you know who Ash Morrigan is?”

Andrew blinked. Not what he’d thought—hoped—she was going to say. “The actor?”

“The super-hot actor,” Georgiana amended.

What the . . .?

“Anyway,” Georgiana continued, “he was in New York a few months back, at the same club as me and the girls. And . . . he seemed interested in me.”

Andrew’s fingers tightened around his wineglass. Yeah, he definitely didn’t like where this was going.

“Your point?”

“My point is, I got his phone number,” she said. “He told me to call him, that he wanted to see me again, that he’d fly me to Los Angeles.”

Andrew took a big swallow of his wine, wishing it were something stronger. Ash Morrigan had starred in every action blockbuster in the past year, about half the romantic comedies, and even some period piece where there were whispers of an Oscar nomination going around. And this was who he was competing with? Ash fucking Morrigan?

“Okay, see, you’re getting this wrong,” Georgiana said urgently. “What I’m trying to tell you is that . . . I never called him. I could never figure out why. I thought maybe it was because I was nervous, but I don’t really get nervous. And lately I’ve been realizing—wondering—if, well, maybe I didn’t call him because of you.”

Andrew’s heart stopped beating, then started again.

“I liked Ash,” she said quietly. “He was fun and charming, and famous, of course . . . but every time I thought about calling him, trying to get excited about the prospect, I realized that what I was most excited about was those early morning run-ins in our building.”

Andrew didn’t know what to say.

“Wow, this is harder than I thought,” she muttered, taking a sip of her wine. “Okay, well, anyway. I gave Hailey Ash’s number. Thought it might help take the sting out of you breaking off your date last night, although honestly, I think she would have been super cool about it anyway. The end.”

Hardly. Hardly, Georgiana. They weren’t even close to the end of . . . whatever they were doing.

“You traded in one of the biggest names in Hollywood for me?” he asked, just to be sure. He had to be sure.

“Don’t make it weird—it was just his phone number. It’s not like Hailey and I put bags over your heads and then made the swap,” she muttered, her fingers fluttering a little nervously on the table.

He reached across and took her hand, waiting until she met his eyes. “What are you doing next Thursday?”

She stared at him. “Do I look like the sort of girl who plans four days in advance?”

“Make an exception. One of the senior partners at my firm is retiring. There’s a big, fancy party. It’s on a yacht or something, I can’t remember.”

“And?”

Of course she wasn’t going to make this easy for him. Of course.

“Come with me,” he said simply.

Her smile was slow and happy, and damned if that didn’t make him happy. “Andrew.”

“Yes?”

“Are we . . . dating?”

He gave her hand a brief squeeze before leaning back in his chair. He picked up the menu but didn’t look at it. “When you gave Hailey Ash’s number, did you simultaneously delete it from your phone?”

She snorted. “Um, no. It’s Ash Morrigan, Andy.”

“Georgiana.”

“Hmm?”

He smiled and held her gaze. “Lose that phone number.”

Her answering smile told him she knew what he was trying to say. You’re mine.