By the time Helen finishes her beer I'm feeling much more relaxed. Maybe it's the easy way that Raven keeps the conversation moving, or laughing at Helen's tall tales till my face hurts, or maybe it's the way Nathan makes me feel like I'm the only woman in the entire restaurant.

I swear he hasn't noticed a single one of the woman who've eyed him as they pass our table, including the waitress who always seems to be there to refill his water glass and not mine.

He doesn't look his age. I knew he was in his 40's from talking to his daughters who are also part of his team along with Helen. I had something different in mind from talking to them, something more along the lines of what I'd asked Raven to find me.

An hour and a half after we sat down, I find myself back on the sidewalk in front of the steak house, not entirely sure how the evening has gone by so fast.

"Of course, that sounds great," I hear Raven saying to Helen as they move a few feet away from Nathan and I. I lose track of their conversation as they leave us to ourselves and suddenly the whole outdoors seems very claustrophobic as Nathan stands entirely too close to me.

"I had a nice time tonight," he tells me, managing to sound confident and shy at the same time. There's a dimple in his right cheek, just the smallest divot that appears when he smiles or, like now, when his jaw tightens nervously.

"Thanks, so did I," I mumble at the space somewhere between where my hands are holding the Styrofoam box containing my left over filet and mashed potatoes and what I think I counted as the fourth button on Nathan's dress shirt.

It's a nice shirt. Black. Well pressed. With flat little buttons in a sort of marbled gray and black finish. I wonder if they're plastic, or bone, or some sort of-- what are buttons on nice mens' dress shirts made of, I wonder?

I never thought about it much before. I wonder if they might be made out of some sort of sea shell or stone like agate? My hand itches to reach out and run the tip of my finger over the smooth disc so I concentrate on making sure I keep both hands securely on the box holding my left overs instead.

A crunching sound breaks the awkward silence that's settle between us and I almost yelp in surprise as I realize it came from the box in question.

OK. A little less securely then.

The problem is that those buttons are holding together two sides of a very nice shirt that looks like it's made out of what? Silk? It's heavier material than any of my silk blouses, but the weave of the material is certainly fine enough.

Are mens' shirts like sheets? Like, is Nathan's shirt some 3 thousand thread count Egyptian cotton?

At this point I really want to touch it.

No. I really want to touch him. I'm sure his shirt is very nice. The buttons are probably very smooth and the fabric is probably very soft with maybe just a hint of stiffness from a little starch to keep it so wrinkle free, but if I'm being completely honest with myself-- which I am not-- I want to know what his chest feels like under that 3rd button just above the one I have my eyes pinned on.

Nathan clears his throat softly and suddenly I'm even more aware of his presence and suddenly terrified of what's coming after the slight step he takes toward me.

We're already standing too close together as far as I'm concerned. Close enough that I wouldn't have to reach far at all to find out if his chest is as solid as it is broad or if his abs are as flat as I think they must be from the way his belt sits at his waist.

I feel his breath hit the top of my head and I know he's looking down at me while I stare-- well let's face it, I'm staring at his his...umm, belt, now. I refuse to acknowledge that my eyes might have wandered a little lower than the smooth black surface of the narrow belt threaded through the loops of a pair of dark denim jeans that fit him entirely too well for my comfort.

"So, Tiffany," his voice is deep and right now it's soft, a private volume for my ears alone, "I was thinking maybe we could continue the evening over coffee?"

His breath is warm on my forehead and I feel the little strands of hair that never stay in place for long when I try to pin back my stupid hair move along the side of my face as I force my eyes up to meet his.

He's standing really close. Close enough that if he wanted to kiss me all he'd have to do is bend down a tad.

That's a sobering thought that makes me step back a pace a little too quickly. I don't get an excuse to wear heels often and I'm out of practice. Naturally, I manage to stumble as I try to plant my foot and forget to account for the narrow spike that's holding my heel 3 inches above the sidewalk.

Nathan's hands are on me before I recover from my rookie move, grasping me at the waist and keeping me steady while I reel from embarrassment.

"You OK?"

He's both concerned and amused and I feel like an idiot.

"Yeah," I say, still trying to regain my bearings, "I just feel like an amateur."

I know I'm blushing, but the heat in my cheeks doesn't compare to the heat of his hands still pressed against my hips...or the heat that's pooling between my thighs.

Thank God we have chaperons.

Nathan laughs at my remark, making me feel less stupid but even more like an amateur-- like a teenage virgin on prom night, not sure how to walk in heels and equally unsure of how to handle the feel of a boy's hands on her.

"So how about it?" Nathan asks, taking his hands off of me and shoving them in his front pockets quickly.

"Huh?" I try not to look visibly disappointed by the absence of his touch while also trying not to notice that he appears to feel a little like it's prom night too. His hands in his pockets do little to hide the growing bulge behind the zipper.

The man's in his 40's, certainly at that age it takes more than touching a girl's ass to give him a hard-on?

I mean, it's not like he really even touched my ass. Not exactly, more like just had his hands right on my waist. More like my hips. His hands are pretty big though, they definitely wrap all the way around my hips. Maybe his fingers touched my ass. Just the top. A little bit.

Oh who am I kidding? His fingers were totally on my ass.

I can still feel the light pressure of his finger tips.

Still. He's 40 something and it's not like I'm a super model.

"Coffee?" The nervousness that flooded him a moment ago has dissipated and he's all handsomeness and playful grin standing in front of me, anticipating my answer.

My head is nodding even though I haven't asked Raven and Helen if they're up for continuing the evening.