Evie
A piece of eel sits atop the rice between the ends of the two orange chopsticks. “This sushi is amazing.”
“Yeah, it’s great.” Dylan smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
His response only makes me amp up my sales pitch. “I love unagi.” I bring the slice to my mouth and devour it, rolling my eyes in pleasure. “So good,” I declare when I finish.
“Yeah, I knew you liked sushi.” His tone is flat.
The mood has shifted. The easy, breezy atmosphere has been zipped up and sealed away in a plastic bag. In its place, Dylan is a perfectly suitable date—polite and considerate. But that’s all.
I keep trying. Broadening my smile. Rocketing up the conversation. Adding even more pom-poms. “I’m so glad we came here. It’s such a great idea to try new restaurants.”
“Yeah.”
I’m a used car salesman. I can’t let go. “Where else do you think you’d want to go on a date?”
His brow knits. “Excuse me?”
I take a drink of my sake and set down the china cup. “Well, I’m thinking about the series Ryder did—ten dates to falling in love. Do you know that?”
“I’m aware of his work.”
“I want to set you up for a successful experience. Do you want to geocache, go to the arcade, see a basketball game?” I ask, but I don’t wait for his answer. I can’t blurt out that I have feelings for him and ruin our business relationship, so I need to salvage this evening. All I can think is to layer on a good mood, a better mood, the best mood. “Oh, that’s it, I bet. Probably a basketball game. Maybe with the woman who has the season tickets? I bet she’d love that.” I fish around in my purse for a small notebook. “I’m just going to jot this down.”
“Evie.” His voice is heavy. It says stop.
But if I stop I’ll have to face the fact that I have feelings for him.
“It’s a good idea, though. Don’t you think?” Brightness defines my face right now. So much brightness, it will overwhelm all the weirdness.
He scrubs a hand over his jaw, then he sighs. “Whatever you decide for a date is fine.” He clears his throat, spreads his hands on the table, and leans closer. His eyes lock with mine, and my breath escapes my chest. For a split second, he glances at the ceiling and shakes his head, then he seems ready. “All I want is to find someone I connect with. The setting doesn’t matter. Hell, we could get cheap tacos, sit on a park bench, or sample salsa, and it would be fine.”
He lets his gaze linger on mine longer than I expect, and his words feel important. As if he’s trying to tell me something beyond what’s been spoken. My stomach flips, and tingles launch an all-out butterfly assault on my body. Is he saying he’s liked these un-dates? That he feels the same connection? And what the hell do I do about it? Do I report myself to the international matchmaker consortium for committing the unspeakable violation of falling for a client?
Fine, fine. It’s not technically a violation. Only I can’t help but think I’ve been dipping into the kitty and skimming off the top. Even if he likes spending time with me, that doesn’t mean I should ask him to date me, only me.
Or does it?
Choose me, I want to say.
I want to sweep my hand across the table of all the other women and knock them to the ground like spilled dishes.
This possessiveness is wholly new to me.
Another thing is, too.
A desire to make more time for him.
To carve out another hour here, another hour there. To make him a priority. I haven’t felt this way for anyone in ages, and I don’t know what to do next. Since he seems to be speaking from the heart, I follow his lead. “Or those delicious tapioca tea balls that you never thought you’d like.”
The corner of his lips twitch. “It’s good to experience new things, don’t you think?”
Heat flows through me, unfurling and warming me everywhere. “I like experiencing new things,” I say and my voice sounds breathless to my own ears.
I wonder how it must sound to him. If he can tell I’m burning up across from him. I cast my gaze to the exit, my mind leaping ahead. Then I look back at Dylan, where his eyes are dark, even behind his lenses.
I draw a breath, and my lips part. They’re an invitation, and he has to know. He has to be able to tell I’m ready to launch myself at him.
He reads my body language. He stands up, moves to my side, and slides next to me, brushing a strand of hair over my ear. I shudder. He dips his face near mine. “I’d really like to kiss you right now.”
All the tension, all the hoping, unspools. All I can do is whisper yes to him.
His lips are on mine, and I melt into the sweetest kiss. It’s soft, but confident. It says he’ll take his time, that he wants this. He wants me. He slides his lips over mine, savoring, and for a flash I can see how he’d undress me, run his hands down my skin, kiss me all over—sensually, seductively, as if I’m the treat he’s been waiting patiently to eat. His hand runs up the bare skin of my arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He reaches my shoulder, gliding over the curve and up my neck.
I shiver. Oh God, how I shiver from his touch. Then his fingers dive into my hair at the nape of my neck, and he holds me as he kisses more deeply. I moan into his mouth, my body turning to jelly under his touch.
He stops, and I catch my breath, blinking. He reaches for his wallet and grabs several bills, tossing them on the table. “Want to get out of here?”
I don’t know where we’re going but the only answer is yes.
And here turns out to be the lobby. His eyes stray to the elevators, then the front desk, then me.
He raises one eyebrow. “I love a well-made bed. Do you?”