I’d like to tell you that I didn’t obsess over getting every aspect of my appearance right before this date. I’d like to tell you I came home after staying late at the office for half an hour, before grabbing a quick shower and sliding into just any old thing lying on my floor. But that would all be a total lie. I pulled out every stop for Mr. Fraser Drake this evening. Did I leave work half an hour early by pretending I’d come down with a rare form of illness caused by deer ticks? Sadly, yes. I had to use my lip liner to paint dots on my face and everything. I am still ten years old; I just graduated to a different body.

Once home, I took a thirty minute shower while shaving and lotioning and washing and conditioning and plucking and tweaking and twerking and any other thing ending in –ing I could think of. Then, you better believe I fretted a full half hour with Casey and Moira on Skype while fishing pieces out of my wardrobe. It’s a studio apartment, so my wardrobe is a closet that would be a walk in closet if I lost half my body weight and then cut off both my legs. Couple that with a few cardboard boxes I still haven’t unpacked, and you have my entire fashion inventory.

Classy, I know.

“You look like you’re going to disco prom,” Moira helpfully says while downing a wine cooler. Hey, I don’t look that tacky. These Mardi Gras beads I found at the bottom of a box were just a touch of flare. It was in the moment, dammit.

“What about a sedate color palette? Something tells me Fraser’s an autumn, not a summer.” Casey is drinking a martini. Why am I the only one without booze? Oh, right, because I don’t want to be sloshed in front of Fraser. Then he might be too much of a gentleman to put his hands down my pants/skirt/elastic waistband.

Depending on what I decide to wear, of course.

Huffing, I take off the brightly colored beads, shake my hair free of the feathered dazzler pinned to my hair, and slide into a little black cocktail dress with some kitten heels and a matching clutch. The girls dog whistle and toast me when I stroll back into view.

“If he’s not eating you out by the end of the night, then I’m drunk,” Moira says before slamming back the remains of her wine cooler. Casey blinks owlishly behind her glasses.

“I’m pretty sure you are, though,” she says. While they continue to argue between themselves, I log off and get my wrap. It’s seven o’clock, folks. My phone buzzes, telling me it’s Fraser Drake downstairs. Showtime.

I think I’m a fairly attractive lady, but when I stroll out the elevator and into the lobby to find Fraser waiting on me, I don’t feel fairly attractive. As soon as he locks eyes with me, I feel like a goddess. His face goes slack, and his jaw even hangs agape for one sweet second. Yes, I’ve made it sound like he’s having a mini stroke, but don’t take my word for it. Take him.

His, take his. You don’t take him, I’m going to.

“You,” Fraser breathes, “look sensational.”

I can’t thank Casey enough for suggesting the classy black ensemble. But I’m not even preening over my compliment right now, because Fraser’s not the only one who’s practically drooling. I think my tongue’s about to roll out and hit the floor, Looney Tunes style.

I don’t know if the well-fitted suit and tie are his everyday business attire, or if he made a special effort for me. All I know is that the clothes accentuate every line of his powerful body, from the broad shoulders to the nicely sculpted backside. The smolder I mentioned in his brown eyes? It has ignited, folks. His whole countenance is blazing with an emotion I like to think is lust. Heavy, panting lust. Maybe we should skip dinner. Or maybe we should order out for pizza in a few hours after we’ve ridden each other to exhaustion.

Who am I kidding? There’s no getting tired tonight.

“Oh, this old thing?” Yes, I do the stereotypical girl act of downplaying how freaking hard I worked to look this good. Sue me, we all have our way of doing business. “It’s just something I happened to have around.” Again, total lie. Most of my clothing is tie-dyed or Little Mermaid themed. I’m so glad Lily got me this for my last birthday. I owe her a fresh ombre-ing for her hair.

“So you make it a habit of looking this delectable?” Fraser saunters towards me—sauntering, folks, I was right. He somehow makes the Windexed, cramped little lobby of my apartment building a sensual paradise just by walking toward me. That is hard to accomplish.

“Well, you never know who’s going to ask you on a date. Good thing you booked your appointment early.”

That is meant to be flirtatious and endearing. Instead, Fraser goes into full on lockdown mode. The wanton lust evaporates from his face like lusty, I don’t know, steam. The smolder in his eyes is squelched. I’m half afraid that Fraser Drake is an android, and I mistakenly pulled his RAM card or something. Now all he’ll be good for is orgasms and making cappuccino.

Not that there is anything wrong with that.

“Fraser? Something wrong?” What did they do in the third Captain America movie with Bucky Barnes? “Er, longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen—”

“Come again? Are you simply making up words now?” There we go, there’s Fraser back at his Grumpy Cat best. He escorts me out to his Lexus, which is parked and gleaming by the curb, then drives me to the restaurant—just like he said he would. Our conversation on the way is pleasant, but the bubbling heat’s been set to simmer, if you know what I mean. Man, Fraser really clammed up when I made that crack about appointments. Kind of annoys me, really. What, does he think I’m just hanging around with an ‘Open 24/7’ sign hanging from my neck? Or, er, lady bits?

Granted, he takes me to Patina, maybe the swankest French restaurant in the entire city, which means that he has at least some gentlemanly intentions. Patina shares space with the Walt Disney concert hall, which is actually one of my favorite places in the world, hands down. There’s something about the sweeping, billowing silver architecture that makes me happy, like someone’s tossing sheets of music into the air.

When we’re seated and on our first course, sea urchin and oyster paired with some knockout handcrafted tequila cocktails, I’m hoping that this is it. This is where the awkwardness stops and the tipsiness begins. True, I can’t remember the last time I was in a place this elegant, but I wouldn’t mind playing a little footsy under the table. I wouldn’t go any further than that, though. I’m classy. Well, sort of.

But Fraser continues to brood—manfully brood, yes, which is super hot, but still. Brooding over cocktails is more of an F. Scott Fitzgerald type thing. You know, the man who writes all day and drinks like a fish all night while bemoaning how nobody understands him, man.

I don’t want my first date with Fraser to go like this.

“Before we get to the stuffed cactus and solid gold caviar portion of the evening, can I propose a toast?” I clink glasses with him. “Here’s to you telling me what’s turned you into a surly beefcake all of a sudden.”

Fraser glowers, but seems intrigued. “Did you say beefcake?”

“Yes, handsome. A big, beautiful, brooding beefcake.”

“I admire your alliteration.”

God, the way he says that gets me wet, but I’m serious right now. “So as I’m replaying the evening in my mind, I recall that when we first saw each other in the shabby, cigarette-smoke choked lobby of my building, we were a little smitten.” I lean forward, aware that the candlelight is undoubtedly plumbing the depths of my cleavage. Plumb away, baby. “Do you agree?”

“More than a little,” he growls. I do believe it’s heating up in here, folks. Fraser draws nearer, and I’m aware again of how his stubble rasped against my cheeks, how his lips claimed mine in that hot, ferocious way. How I’m aware—and aroused—by his presence. But if we’re going to do this, we need to bare all before we, well, bare all.

“Then tell me,” I say, leaning close enough to get in kissing range, “why you got all weird when I joked about taking appointments.”

The smolder dies; the sizzle vanishes; the grill of lust is turned off to save more propane, or whatever. Fraser retreats back to his corner of the table, brooding at the lobster tail that has appeared before us. And yes, there is a crouton with caviar placed atop a cactus flower to complete the presentation. But it doesn’t matter how fancy this dinner is, there’s no way we can move forward if he won’t freaking talk to me.

“So I guess I’m going to enjoy this amazing meal in silence? Or are you trying to telepathically communicate with me?” I put my finger up to my temple and squint. I’m going for a ‘trying to receive telepathy look,’ although it may just come off as constipated. “Come again, Fraser? Come again!” I have to restrain myself from kicking him under the table. Fraser looks up at me again, his face a textbook example of ‘sexy brooding.’ Man, the sight of that gets me hot. But I need a little verbal seasoning.

“What do you imagine I’m saying to you right now?” he asks. Okay, at least that’s something. I ease up on the squinting, but I leave a finger to my temple, committing to this mindreading act.

“I’m getting some hesitation. A few choice comments about how amazing my tits look in this dress.”

“I, er, that is.” His eyes flick once to my cleavage, and his shoulders relax. “Well, guilty as charged.”

I giggle, and Fraser’s mouth quirks a few times. Trying to repress all that pesky laughter. Before the night’s over, I’m going to make Fraser Drake scream. With pleasure, that is, not pain. I mean, unless he’s into that sort of thing? I digress.

“But the biggest image that’s coming across, loud and clear?” I make a fist and thrust it into the air, wincing as I do so. “A huge, impressive stick right up the butt.”

Fraser took a sip of his cocktail as I do that, and nearly chokes into his napkin. “Keep your voice down,” he whispers, but the twitching mouth corners have returned. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I mean, it is better than a prostate exam, this stick. It is filled with hopes and dreams, hopes and dreams you’re trying to stuff away into the deepest orifice.”

“We are in one of the most elite restaurants in the city.” He tries to say this sternly, but now I can hear that he’s losing control. Laughter is imminent. “My God, I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Oh, you can take me. Anywhere,” I quickly amend, though I’m serious about the first part of that sentence. Fraser’s manful smolder, his flinty self control, his laughter, it’s all a potent combination that makes me want to start doing things to him under the table more appropriate at a strip club than a fancy restaurant. “But the price is talking to me. Before the lobster is gone.” I take a bite of that heavenliness. “And better do it fast, because hot damn this is good.”

Fraser leans back in his chair and looks at me. The heated focus of his gaze sends a flush of gooseflesh over my arms. I slowly put down my fork, wanting nothing more than to press myself against this man, take him in my arms, listen to him. I want him to let me in.

And he does.

“All right. I have…issues with trust,” he admits at last. Normally I’d respond with a snarky comment along the lines of ‘tell me something I don’t know’ but not right now. Fraser absently rubs his chin; whatever he has to say is struggling to find its way to the surface. “When I was at Cambridge, I met a woman. Hell, the word woman seems inaccurate based on my feelings at the time. I thought she was a goddess. I fell passionately in love.”

He says it with the low, even control of a man who can master anything—any skill, any emotion. My heart warms even as my stomach drops. Where is this going? Is it going to end with him admitting he’s only using me to forget about a past flame?

Only way to figure it out is to let him continue.

“We were together all through university, and afterwards we moved in together. When we turned twenty-five, I planned to ask her to marry me.” He waits while the waiter shows up to pour the wine for our next course. Fraser looks into my eyes as he picks up his glass, swirling the wine so that it catches the light. “Unfortunately, she left me for another man.”

Jesus. “You were together all those years, and she just up and left?”

Fraser nods; it looks like this physically pains him, but he’s being stoic about it. “Something like that. Her leaving was bad enough, but I’m rather proud.” He clears himself; ‘rather proud’ is kind of an understatement, and I think he knows it. That’s like saying Moby Dick was ‘a slightly big whale.’ “I decided I didn’t want to feel pain like that ever again. In some ways, it was the pitying looks on people’s faces that made it all the worse.” He clenches and squares his jaw, obviously replaying all the ‘your girlfriend left’ greatest hits in the privacy of his own mind. “I never wanted to feel like that again. Like a fool.”

“So…you’re afraid I was going to schtup the mailman if you didn’t show up first?” Holy shit, I don’t mean that to sound as disrespectful as it does, but the words fly out of my mouth like flying things that have been enjoying tequila. I wince, and my whole body clenches. “Sorry. That sounded flip.”

“No.” Finally, Fraser smiles. It’s a small smile, but it melts me all the same. “That sounded like you. Which, incidentally, is what I like.”

I feel his hand come to rest on my thigh. It’s not the ‘hey baby, take me home’ creepy squeeze I’m used to from other men. You know, the kind of squeeze that usually gets a salad fork in the hand and a drink in the face. This squeeze is secure and securing, warm and increasingly hot at the same time. Fraser’s eyes never leave my face as he leans in closer.

“I don’t like to get close to people, Emma. In fact, I avoid it whenever possible. But you’re too tempting to ignore.”

I’m pretty sure I’m about to turn boneless and slide under the table in a pool of jelly. But that’s probably not sexy.

“Ignore.” That’s not even a question. That’s just a word that happened to leak out. I swallow, try again. “Me. I mean, don’t.” What am I saying? Don’t ignore me? Oh God, I’m flushing. I can feel it happening. And wouldn’t you know it? Fraser smiles.

“Oh, I already know it isn’t possible to ignore you. You’ve a smart mouth, a striking wit.” He leans in closer, pulling us toward each other like comets about to smash into each other and shatter before their pieces rain down and burn up in earth’s atmosphere. God, why do I think of Neil Degrasse Tyson’s voice when I’m about to kiss a man? “And,” Fraser adds, oblivious to my internal astronomy lesson, “you’re fucking gorgeous.”

He practically growls that last line, and my body clenches. I’m pretty sure these panties are ruined now. I forget about my panties, the lobster, and all of the richest people in Los Angeles that are in this room right now: I am about to be kissed by Fraser Drake, and I am about to enjoy it. A lot.

Fraser squeezes my thigh again as he brings his lips to mine. Part of me wants to leap on top of him and start tearing at his clothes, but that doesn’t seem like the classy thing to do. Unfortunately. His mouth claims mine once in a searing, white hot kiss. His fingers trail a little higher up my thigh, and the low, throbbing feeling right between my legs is aching for his special attention. But he breaks off the kiss, and removes his hand. A gentleman through and through. And while part of me can’t stand waiting, the other part is loving how on edge he makes me feel. I’m about ready to come undone, and I think Fraser is as well. The tightness of his mouth, the wildfire that seems to have been kindled in his eyes, it is all enough to make a woman feel kind of like a goddess.

But not a goddess like the one he dated before. No, more of a smoldering, sensual, kind of silly goddess. The kind that wants cupcakes brought to her sacrificial altar instead of doves. Much more humane and sugary that way.

Careful, Emma. Pay attention to the hot man, ignore the delusions of grandeur.

“Then let me promise you something, Fraser.” I place my hand over his on the table—see folks, nothing naughty going on here. I hear his breath hitch at my touch; it’s like he can’t believe it’s happening. “I don’t play around with men. When I’m sleeping with somebody, that’s it. They’re the only one I’m with.”

“I see.” He takes my hand, his thumb brushing against the sensitive, thin skin at my wrist. “We haven’t slept together yet, of course.” Oh yeah, there’s sheer wickedness lighting up his face. Sheer semi-British wickedness. It’s a smile that promises dirty deeds and lots of tweed jackets. God, I’m getting horny just thinking about it.

“Think we should rectify the situation?” I brush my foot against his leg, just once.

We don’t stay for dessert.