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“That’s good,” I comment, but my voice catches in my throat when his foot brushes against my calf. Traces up my leg under the table. “Though I’ll have to take your word for it,” I add, remembering why we’re here. I have to do that–remind myself that this is not a normal date. Because otherwise, it all feels too normal, too easy to forget myself around him. To get lost in those deep gray eyes.
But he doesn’t want to date me. He just wants to deflower me. What does he expect to happen after this date? My belly clenches again, this time with an unpleasant edge to the nerves.
“Are you finished?” he asks, and for a second I think he means with talking. Then I notice him glancing at our cups. It was delicious, but I barely thought about the flavor, inhaling it as a distraction from staring too openly at the sexy man across the table.
“Um, sure,” I stammer.
“Let’s go,” he says, rising and offering me a hand.
I accept his hand, let him pull me to my feet, even as panic starts to set in. Is this it? Does he expect me to just go home with him now and get this over with? I’m not ready for that—I’m still not even sure I want to do this, it was just a joke that spiraled out of control. I’m opening my mouth to tell him exactly that when he draws my arm through his and turns us. Away from the exit. Toward the back of the room, through which I realize there’s a hallway that expands into another space.
“Let’s go see the rest of the gallery,” he says, and I can’t help the faint sigh of relief that escapes me, as I sag against his arm a little.
Okay, so he’s not moving that fast.
Yet.
We take our time in the gallery, which turns out to be deceptively larger than I expected. We wind through corridor after corridor, room after room, finding a different style in each section. Declan talks about some of them, the historical art movements that inspired the pieces, the styles the artists are referencing. He’s right–even though I don’t know anything about art, I can still appreciate the pieces. I know which ones I like, even if I can’t quite explain why. In the last room, I’m drawn to a larger-than-life painting, filling up half the wall, all pastel colors and flowing scenes. It looks like a flower in abstract, or maybe just oil on the surface of water.
“So this is your favorite,” Declan says, after watching me study it for a while. He doesn’t ask; he says it like he knows.
He’s right, though. “How can you tell?” I counter, cocking my head as I grin up at him. He’s taller than me by several inches, but not so tall that I can’t catch his eye.
Then again, it seems like he’s spent more time in here looking at me than any of the paintings. “The way your eyes light up when you look at it. Like you can’t tear your eyes away.” But now, as he says this, my eyes are locked onto his. And now, he’s right, I really can’t tear my gaze away.
My heart beats faster in my chest, and the rest of the world, even the beautiful painting, all seem to blur and fall away. I can’t stop studying his gray eyes, the little flecks of gold around his irises at the very center. The way those eyes study me back, seeing me, in a way I’m not used to being seen.
“Which one is your favorite?” I ask.
He smiles. It’s wolf-sharp, laser-focused, and I remember what he said online. When I set my sights on someone I want, I always win. “My favorite?” he asks, mulling over the words, as though thinking. His eyes sharpen on mine. There’s no space between us, barely half a foot of air. It would be so easy for him to lean forward, close that gap, let his mouth sink into mine. His eyes drop to my lips, studying me, and I know he’s thinking the same thing. Do it, I urge him without words. Kiss me.
But he just raises his eyes back to mine and widens that smile. “My favorite view just now isn’t a painting.”
I’m still catching my breath when he breaks eye contact first, turns away. I resist the urge to catch his arm, pull him back, because I want to keep looking at him. I want to know where this is heading. So when he starts to climb a staircase behind one of the gallery walls, I don’t think. I follow him up.
At this point, he has me hooked. I’d follow him anywhere.
4
We climb the stairs, and I can’t help the gasp that escapes me at the top. We step off the staircase into a gorgeous room, full of skylights and broad balconies on either side, the glass doors open to let in fresh air. The ceiling is all wooden beams and hanging plants, intermingled with copper pots and kettles, giving it the air of a cottage hidden in the woods, or maybe a tree-house. The kind of cozy, private place you can go for some privacy, to get away from the real world and back to nature. Even though we’re in the middle of downtown, I feel like we’re the only people in the world right now.
“What is this?” I ask, just as a man in black slacks and shirt appears, holding menus.
“It’s the Treehouse. An exclusive new restaurant just opened a few months ago. Are you hungry?” Declan asks, already accepting a menu from the waiter. The waiter smiles and hands me one as well, listing the specials, each one sounding more mouth-watering than the last.
I wasn’t hungry, didn’t think I’d be able to eat with Declan here watching my every move. But suddenly, food sounds perfect. Or at least, an excuse to prolong this date. Drag every second out as long as possible.
“Why isn’t it more crowded in here?” I ask as we weave through the tables toward one in the corner, a booth of velvet cushions situated right next to a cozy fireplace and close enough to one of the balcony windows that we can feel the breeze. The sun nears the horizon through the glass, and the fairy lights that wrap around the window catch the setting sunlight and throw it across the table in prisms. “This place is amazing. It should be packed.”
“Normally it is,” Declan admits as he takes the seat beside me and nods at the waiter, who vanishes to fetch us something. “I reserved it for us tonight.”
My eyes widen. “What, the whole restaurant?”
“I thought it would be best to have some private time on our first date. Really get to know one another. That’s hard to do in a crowd.”
I swallow hard, flashing a glance at the waiter as he returns with a champagne bottle, a bucket, and two glasses. Clearly, Declan ordered ahead, too. I watch the waiter pop the cork and pour for us, letting Declan sample the champagne first.
“It’s definitely nice to have some peace and quiet in a place like this,” I admit, accepting my glass from the waiter with a smile of thanks. There’s still a nervous flutter in my stomach. I want to be alone with Declan, but at the same time, the idea is terrifying. What could happen if we’re left alone? What will he expect?
What will I be willing to do? For the first time in my life, I’m not sure. “But we aren’t exactly alone alone,” I point out, watching the waiter’s back as he turns to go.
“If we ask Martin to leave us alone, he will,” Declan replies, lifting his voice just loud enough so that Martin waves over his shoulder.
I swallow again, harder this time. The waiter seems so calm, unperturbed. He knows Declan. Has Declan done this before?
I shake my head. No use thinking like that. I haven’t done this before, that’s why it all seems so strange to me. I have to keep that in mind. I study the champagne, take a small sip, and blink at the rich flavors that wash over my tongue. “You must be really rich to reserve an entire restaurant, let alone one like this, just for a single date.”
Declan shrugs, the utter image of nonchalance. “My money isn’t a secret.”
I catch his gaze over the rim of our champagne glasses. “What are your secrets, I wonder.” I meant the comment playfully, but while I smile, Declan just laughs darkly and leans across the table toward me. My breath catches at his sudden proximity, so close, just inches away. I catch his scent, heady and masculine, with a touch of pine, some kind of cologne he’s wearing, faint but appealing. And there’s a hint of mint, too, on his breath. It makes me want to close the gap between us. Kiss him. But I can’t, not yet, not when I still don’t
know how this all works. What he’s expecting here.
“Who says I have secrets?” he asks, his voice a low, sexy hum in the air.
“Everyone has secrets,” I counter. Then I lift an eyebrow, grinning. “Especially someone who uses a website like First Time for Sale.”
His brow draws tight for a moment, a crease appearing between his eyes. I blink, thinking I’ve messed everything up, bringing up that strange site, the weird way we met. But then his expression clears, and he grins, his fingertips grazing my hand where it rests on the table. My whole body turns electric at his touch, a live wire waiting to go off. I tense and try to hide it with a smile, but judging by his widening grin, he knows how he affects me. Knows it and enjoys it.
