THE SOUND OF MICHAEL Bublé’s velvety smooth voice brought me to my feet. This song reminded me of my mother. Although she loved the original version of “Who’s Lovin’ You” by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles, I think she would have enjoyed this rendition.
I took in the room filled with the rich and famous all relaxed with the flow of booze. Some people were working. Others were enjoying an evening among friends. It was an odd mix for a dinner party.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around my waist from behind. In a fluid movement, I twirled around coming face to chest with the owner of those solid arms. There he stood before me wrapped in dark threads, my guess, Armani. He stole my breath and sent my pulse racing all at once.
When his hands fell to my waist, I glanced up locking my arms around his neck. I held his hazel eyes in mine, the glowing flecks of amber captivating me, drawing me closer like a moth to a flame.
“I’ve been waiting all night to get my hands on you.”
That voice—deep, sensual, and full of delicious promise. I remembered it so well from the last time we were together.
“Is that so?”
He nodded. “It is. I’m going to say something completely unoriginal but I need you to pretend that you’re impressed, okay?”
“Hmm, I can’t make any promises.”
The people, the laughter, and the chatter all faded into nothingness. He swept me across the room spinning me around until we came to a standstill in front of the floor to ceiling windows. Music was the only thing I heard, and the world suddenly became this small space between us.
For a moment, I thought the top of my dress would slip, but he proved to be an excellent dance partner. He had a superior frame, perfect balance and his feet never touched the hem of my strapless gown.
“I’ve wanted to say this since the first night I met you . . . you’re incredibly beautiful.”
I glanced sideways at him, offering a small smirk. He was right, it wasn’t very original. “My reply will be as equally unoriginal.”
His fingers brushed over my hand before entwining our fingers. “Lay it on me, beautiful,” he said, rubbing the pad of his thumb over my knuckles.
“You’re not so bad yourself, handsome.”
He gave me the most seductive smile which knocked the air from my lungs causing my skin to tingle.
Even though I already knew his name, he introduced himself—again. This tall solid mass of a man was none other than movie star, Matthew Barber. He had been on my mind since our brief coffee shop encounter some weeks ago, and now he was here standing beside me.
I might have had posters of him on my wall in college. I might have stared up at them at night and thought about what it would be like to have his hands all over my body. I may have doodled Mrs. Matthew Barber on my freshman psychology notes in bubble letters.
“What can I get you to drink?”
The server’s question interrupted the replay of memories. Matthew arched one of his thick dark brows at me. Words failed me, apparently I was tongue tied or the nerves that sent a signal from my brain to my mouth had been fried.
“Champagne, we’re celebrating,” Matthew replied.
She smiled and then hurried off towards the bar, leaving the two of us alone once more.
“What are we celebrating?” I asked, shifting on my heel.
“Our first date, of course.”
“First date,” I repeated.
“Tonight, is our first date.”
“I can’t decide if this is a unique approach to a first date or not—a welcoming party for an A-lister’s little sister—not particularly romantic.”
“Not romantic?” He cocked a brow. “We have all the makings of a romantic evening, there’s music, drinks, food, and conversation.” He bent to whisper in my ear, “And an added bonus, since this is our first date that means that I’m two steps closer to getting you into bed and underneath me.”
The server returned with our champagne giving me time to formulate a response. I could pretend that I was offended and play hard to get. I could give him the milk for free with the possibility that I’d never hear from him again. He’ll want more, I’m amazing in bed.
Despite his Hollywood star power, Matthew struck me as confident, not cocky or smug. I’d been around plenty of men who wielded their power to make women feel small. This wasn’t one of those times, of that I was sure.
“I assume you’re playing a numbers game—the magic number being three. I wouldn’t have suspected that you were a follower of the third date rule.”
“If this is the part where you say, fuck the rules, I’m all for it, beautiful.”
I smiled behind my champagne glass. “Are you actually friends with anyone here or are you a Hollywood party crasher?”
“Ronan invited me, but he told me that it was going to be an intimate party. I didn’t expect this many industry execs to be here.”
I snickered, resting my back on the cool glass of the window. “Remind me to give them a few tips on how to throw a good party.”
“Noted. So tell me, how did you score an invite to this party?” He took a swig of champagne. His face scrunched up as if he’d tasted something sour.
“Holliday is one of my closest friends. You know, there’s plenty of alcohol, you certainly don’t need to drink the champagne.” I pointed towards his glass.
“Now that you mention it, I could go for a beer and some tostadas, or enchiladas covered in chili pepper sauce. I’m starving and the menu says grilled pear, prosciutto, and arugula salad. What the hell is arugula anyway?”
“It’s a leafy green plant, resembles fancy lettuce. It’s harmless, I promise. In fact, there are a number of . . .” I paused, and signaled for a server. “My friend would like a beer, please.”
“Sure thing, sir, we have several IPA’s this evening . . .”
Matthew held up his hand. “I’m gonna stop you right there. I’ll take a bourbon.”
“Very well, sir.” The server stepped away making a bee-line for the bar.
“No IPA’s for you?”
He shook his head. “I’d rather chew bark.”
“Funny, I think beer tastes like bitter bark, mossy even.”
“Well, I need to introduce you to the right kind of beer. I’ll take you out, there’s a bar with over a hundred beers on tap. You’re bound to find one that you love—I’m guessing you’re a Stella kind of woman.”
“I don’t think so,” I reaffirmed. “Beer is so heavy.”
Matthew tossed his head back. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had a cold beer and authentic Mexican food.”
“Okay, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll try the beer if you eat all of the salad.”
“I’m going to need a little more persuasion.” Matthew jutted his chin. “You were saying, about the arugula.” He leaned closer, so close and smelling heavenly. I couldn’t place the exact fragrance notes—mostly clean with a hint of spice perhaps oranges and a light woodsy finish. I inhaled deeply getting my fill of the scent.
“Here you are.” The server returned handing Matthew a glass tumbler filled with a honey colored liquid.
His gaze drifted back to me, the moonlight passing over his strong features. “It’s Gucci Guilty.”
There was no hiding my smile. I’d been caught, sniffing a movie star. “I like it, very much,” I admitted. He took a swallow of his drink. I studied his neck, and his chin and his barely there stubble. My mind raced with dirty thoughts of his face between my legs with that scruff rubbing against my most sensitive spots.
“Back to the arugula, I need to hear more about this fancy lettuce.”
I took a sip of champagne, swallowing down my lustful thoughts along with the sweet bubbles. Averting my eyes, I studied the silk embroidery on his maroon pocket square and the stripes of his navy suit. “Right, arugula has a ton of health benefits—increased metabolism, it detoxifies and improves eyesight. I like it best with chicken, almonds, and goat cheese, but there are dozens of recipes. It’s delicious with figs, Burrata cheese, jam, olive oil, and a little bit of balsamic vinegar.”
“Wait, did you say—figs?”
I laughed and nodded. “Believe it or not, yes, people do eat them. You live in California, haven’t you seen them in the produce section?”
Matthew shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not in the habit of going to the market these days.”
“I love to cook, actually, I love to bake, but I don’t do it often—cooking for one person feels like a waste at times. Lots of leftovers, and I don’t like eating leftovers.”
Matthew’s attention turned to my lips. “Well, I’m going to devour tonight’s arugula salad and then you and I will have dinner together—and there won’t be any leftovers.”
Swallowing harshly, I couldn’t seem to find my words. There was something in the way he said the word devour—it sent shivers racing over my skin. It was like a delicious promise laced with innuendo.
“Dinner will begin shortly, please take your seats,” Holliday announced from the dining room.
Matthew’s hand landed on the small of my back as he guided me through the room. The feel of his fingers through my dress sent heat spreading over my skin. We approached the table, and then he pulled out one of the chairs motioning for me to take a seat. As I gazed at the menu card in front of me, I caught the newest member of Ronan’s security team rushing up the staircase. For a small gathering, there was a significant amount of security.
My mother never had this kind of protection. I wondered if she would still be alive today had she had a bodyguard back then. No. Don’t think about that, not tonight. I couldn’t let my mind retreat to that dark place, especially not tonight. Tonight, my dinner companion was a man I dreamed about so many times and I hoped the reality was as good as the fantasy.