Brit couldn’t help it. She straight-up gaped at her surroundings as Hunter led her into the restaurant. It was gorgeous. Easily one of the most stunning restaurants she’d ever been to, and that was saying something living in Manhattan, where fancy was often the status quo.
“This is your first-date spot?” she asked as Hunter gave his name to the hostess.
“Sometimes,” he said with a shrug. “You’ve never been?”
She snorted. “Nope. And even if I had, it likely would have been on a girls’ night planned by one of the Stiletto girls. Guys would never bring me here. Or anyplace close to it.”
Hunter was in the process of helping ease her jacket down her arms, but he stilled for a moment and she turned her head slightly, looking up to see what was wrong.
His expression was . . . angry.
Then he shook his head and resumed pulling her sleeve. “You’ve been dating the wrong dudes.”
Brit said nothing as he took their jackets to the girl manning the coat check. She already knew that she’d been dating the wrong kind of guys. This whole plan was about attracting the right one.
Hunter accepted the ticket from the coat-check girl, then turned back toward Brit, going still once more when he saw her.
He looked her up and down. “That’s not the black shirt we talked about.”
The black dress was one of her favorites. It was slim-fitting without being skintight. At first glance it was surprisingly demure, a basic style that covered her arms and hit just above the knee, not showing much skin. But something about the way it was cut made it feel like it was meant for her. The top was velvet and fitted in the torso with a sweetheart neckline. The skirt was lace with the slightest amount of movement to swish when she walked.
“No, I made a last-minute decision against the black shirt,” she admitted. “I didn’t try this one on the other night because I already knew that I loved it and was going to keep it whether or not you approved.”
Brit saw Hunter swallow and give a quick shake of his head. Before she could ask whether that was approval or lack thereof, the hostess approached with two menus. “Your table’s ready, Mr. Cross.”
Hunter gestured for Brit to precede him, and she did, resuming her marvel of the restaurant—the perfect lighting, the stunning chandeliers, the warm colors and textures that managed to seem both timelessly romantic and fantastically modern.
Her thoughts scattered when she felt Hunter’s hand rest lightly on the small of her back. A fleeting touch, probably more instinctive than anything, but she felt the contact tingle all the way up her spine.
Had he ever touched her like that before? Maybe. Probably. She’d never noticed.
She noticed now.
Then his touch was gone, and she was walking across the restaurant, following the hostess, who led them to a corner booth. It could have easily fit four, and since it was just the two of them, the extra space gave an illusion of privacy rare in tiny, crowded New York restaurants.
Hunter sat a little closer than he needed to, though she supposed that was more due to the loud music than anything else. She wondered if that was part of what made the restaurant sexy. The loud music should have killed the romance, but somehow it added to it—made you want to lean in to whoever you were with a little more to make sure you didn’t miss a word.
“I see why you like it here,” she said, placing the napkin on her lap. “It’s . . . well, it’s sexy, isn’t it?”
He glanced around. “I just like the food.”
“Oh, that’s crap,” she said with a laugh. “Taking a woman to a place like this is more likely to get you laid, and you know it.”
He gave her a sharp, surprised look, and her laughter died. “Not like you and me tonight . . . You know what I mean.”
He smiled quickly. “Yeah. I got it.”
A server approached, asking if they wanted tap, sparkling, or bottled water. After clarifying that tap was fine, she picked up the menu, then looked up at him.
“What’s good? Oh, wait.” She bit her lip. “Is that annoying? I always ask that if I know a guy’s been to a restaurant before and I haven’t, but is that too much pressure—”
“Brit.” He set his fingers lightly against her arm. “Relax. It’s just me.”
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he interrupted. “Rather than you overthinking every sentence for the entire evening, and rather than me providing constant feedback, be yourself. I’ll do my best to perceive you as I would a woman I’m dating. We can debrief after.”
Brit considered this, then she shrugged. “Works for me.”
He smiled, a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Why are you smiling like that?” she asked.
He shrugged as he pulled reading glasses from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and slid them on. “Nothing. You’re just . . . easy.”
“Um.”
“Easy to be around,” he said, not looking up from the menu. “Also, lesson number one, don’t read into everything.”
“Thought we weren’t going to debrief until after?”
“Starting now,” he said. He peered at her over the rims of his glasses. “You like oysters?”
“I do,” she said. “I didn’t used to, but they kind of grow on you, huh?”
Hunter nodded in agreement. “Can’t say there were a whole lot of fresh oysters in Kansas City, and when I moved to New York my first boss ordered some for the table without asking if I liked them. When they came, I thought it was some sort of horrible mistake.”
She laughed. “Yeah, they definitely take the award for one of the least visually appetizing foods. I had to close my eyes and plug my nose the first time I tried one. But then the salty sea vibe sort of settles in, and . . . yeah, I like them.”
Hunter ordered a dozen for the two of them, along with a bottle of champagne. He didn’t ask if she liked champagne. That, he already knew, courtesy of years of friendship and many New Year’s Eves spent together.
“Speaking of Kansas City, how is everyone?” she asked. She’d met his family a couple of times when she’d gone to Missouri to be his date to various weddings.
“Funny you mention it,” he said. “My parents are coming out this weekend. They want Malik to see the city. Hell, probably so he doesn’t end up like me, never seeing an oyster till he’s twenty-four.”
“How’s he settling in?” she asked as the server poured their champagne.
Malik was Hunter’s foster brother. Dennis and Gail had four kids, but they’d been hit hard by empty-nest syndrome when Hunter’s younger sister had left for college a couple of years ago. They’d decided to become foster parents to a kid who desperately needed a home.
“Better. A lot better, actually. When I went back for Christmas, he’d lost that sort of edge, you know? He seemed happy. They all did.”
“He’s what, twelve?”
“Thirteen. Hopefully the careful alliance they’ve all forged won’t go to hell as he enters the teen years, but my parents say so far so good.”
“I’d love to see them when they’re here, if it’s not too intrusive.”
He gave her a look. “Please. As if my parents would pass up a chance to interrogate you. Malik wants to meet you too.”
“He knows about me?” She was surprised.
Hunter seemed confused by the question. “Of course.” Then he lifted his glass. “Shall we toast?”
She raised hers as well. “Absolutely. To . . . your parents’ visit? Malik?”
“Hmm. Yes. To that. And to your plan.”
She clinked her glass and took a sip. Delicious. “I thought you hated my plan.”
“I never said that.”
“Well, you sure as hell didn’t agree to it readily, and you’ve put up a fuss with every suggestion I’ve made.”
“Men don’t fuss, Robbins.”
“Uh-huh. I work with mostly males, so I know otherwise.”
“Okay, fine, I don’t love the plan. But . . .” He looked over at her. “I’m glad that it’s me instead of someone else.”
“I wouldn’t have asked anyone else,” she said quietly. Truthfully. “I can’t imagine anything more vulnerable than asking someone to tell you why you’re unlovable.”
“Brit.” He put his glass down sharply.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she rushed to explain. “Really, I didn’t. I promise I don’t think I’m not worth loving. I just . . . I do sometimes wonder why I’m not finding love when everyone around me is.”
“I’m not.”
“Yeah, well . . .” She smiled a little. “You don’t want to.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re good with women. Really good. If you wanted to make one of those relationships last, you’d have your pick of anyone.”
“Well—”
She turned all the way toward him. “When was the last time someone dumped you?”
He looked away, and she lifted a finger. “Aha! You’re irresistible. I bet it’s the glasses,” she mused quietly, sipping her champagne again.
“I don’t wear them on dates.”
It was her turn to put her glass down sharply. “What? Never?”
Hunter shook his head.
“But you need them. How do you read the menu without?”
To her surprise, he blushed slightly. “I can read the menu without them; I just have to sort of squint and bring it close. . . .”
“Hunter.” She waited until he looked up. “Promise me you’ll stop that nonsense. They look really good on you.”
“Yeah?” He tilted his head.
“Yeah.”
“You’ve never said that before.”
“Yeah, well . . .” She felt flustered. “Guy and girl friends don’t make a habit of telling each other such things, do they? I mean, girlfriends do, and boyfriends and girlfriends do, but not guy and girl friendships so much.”
“No, I guess not.” He looked down at the table, then back up at her. “Maybe they should.”
“Maybe they should what?” she asked.
His gaze was intense. “Tell each other. When something’s . . . working, for the other person.”
“Sure, okay,” she said with a shrug, turning her attention to the menu.
“Brit.” He waited until she looked at him. “That dress you’re wearing. I approve.”
“Yeah?” She mimicked his question from when she’d complimented his glasses.
“Oh yeah.”
Brit suddenly couldn’t breathe, and her hands felt a little shaky, her face hot.
Well, then . . .
Well, then . . .
What did she do with that?
And why did it make her feel like this?