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I left my thick curls untamed so they were wild and crazy, but somehow stylishly cute. Spritzed them, my neck and my wrists with Chanel. Went heavy on the mascara to make my eyes really pop. Light on the lipstick so I had that glossy, natural pink, Kim Kardashian thing going. Marveled at my skin that glowed against the stark white, off-the-shoulder blouse that flared slightly at the waist. Thanked Emily for the Pilates class she signed me up for, which had tightened my ass and toned my legs, that looked really great in the black, leather, stiletto pants. And took seventeen pictures of the Louboutin heels that were white on top and red on the bottom.
“Penelope!”
I snap a quick, bathroom mirror, duck face selfie and send it to Emily.
Wait for her response.
Get the same one I get every time I send her a pic.
The middle finger emoji.
“We’ve got to…” Jake’s voice trails off as he drinks me in, fucks me down, turns me on and twists me inside out all with a look. “…Go.”
“Do I look pretty?” I flash him a smile and curtsy.
“You look like dessert.”
Heat is just…it’s everywhere. Burning me the fuck up. I part my lips to get more air and pant while he takes his time looking at me. “Do you like dessert?”
He meets my eyes. “It’s quickly becoming my favorite thing to eat.”
Kryptonite…Still got it.
I’m feeling a little weak, too. The man is wearing a suit, which isn’t unusual for him. But this one? All black. Jet black. Even his tie is black. He looks like a CEO bad boy. And that big Rolex on his wrist isn’t helping to quell my desire.
I’m not a materialistic person or anything, but when you’ve only dated the kind of dudes who wear a Timex, you can’t help but get a little excited over seeing a man with a diamond encrusted piece of jewelry that, no matter the quality, still just tells fucking time. Like, literally. That’s it’s only purpose. Hottest waste of money ever.
The ogling between us lasts a minute longer before he clears his throat and grabs the black leather jacket he’d laid out for me. His hungry prowl is that of a panther. And I’m a gazelle. About to be eaten for dessert. Because I look like dessert. Or, so says Jake Swagger.
Even in these heels that are every bit of four inches, he towers over me. When he steps behind me to assist with my jacket, I have to take a deep breath to steady myself. He takes a deep breath too. Only his nose is buried in my curls.
“You smell divine.”
I turn to face him and the smoldering look he’s giving me has my nerve endings sending signals to my brain that result in me doing that thing I always do when I’m nervous. “Still not of the sea variety, eh?” River dance, finger snap, finger guns.
“You are so fucking strange. Anyone ever told you that?”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Only the people who like me.”
“It’s because they want you to change.”
I tilt my head and narrow my gaze. “But do they really?”
He grunts. “Let’s go.”
I’m shocked and a little flattered when Jake takes my hand. That fades when I realize it’s so he can set our pace—really fast. I’m not surprised when he huffs about having to slow down because I can’t keep up in these shoes. I’m not surprised when he gives me the stupid-stare in the elevator as I hum. Or when he keeps his head in his phone and doesn’t speak to me the entire ride to the restaurant. This is typical Jake Swagger behavior.
But it’s when we arrive at our destination that I discover a chivalrous side to Jake that makes this hopeless romantic swoon harder than I ever have. Like dancing, this isn’t even on That Guy’s list of must-have’s. It’s all Jake. Which somehow makes it even hotter.
The small Italian restaurant is tucked neatly between two massive brick buildings. The glass front with its view of the white linen covered tables, muted lighting, overhead awning and hanging baskets of greenery dusted in snow, looks like a picture of Paris. It’s a burst of warmth on what could be the coldest day in Chicago’s history.
But the front of the restaurant is just that—a front. There’s no door for entry. And the parking lot in the back sits a good hundred feet from the entrance due to the garden patio. I take Jake’s offered hand and step out of the car and into the bitter cold. The asphalt, though it’s been salted, is an icy death trap for my Louboutin’s.
With Jake’s hand still in mine, I feel positive he’ll catch me before I bust my ass. But I haven’t even taken a step when my feet are swept out from under me. I let out a squeal, and feel my heart sink to my knees.
