Remy cocked his head. “A someone who makes nibbles for your date. Must be a very good friend.”
Surely he didn’t think I was involved with the guy and he was okay with me going on a date with someone else?
“He is and so’s his husband, and I adore their kids.”
Remy giggle-snorted. “Sorry if I came on a little too strong.”
I poured us each a wine, and we clinked glasses.
“What shall we drink to?” I asked.
“To us!”
“To us,” I repeated.
He put his arm along the back of the sofa. He looked at home in the middle of the finely crafted furniture with his hair slicked back and wearing a jacket.
“Tell me how you came to own all this.” He waved one hand toward the other room settings.
“It was handed down from grandfather to son and then to me, the grandson.”
“There aren’t many of your types of business left. They’ve been undercut by conglomerates.”
“True. We provide a level of craftsmanship that is dying out.”
He nodded and sipped his wine before getting up and wandering to the dining room area. “And am I to guess this is for us, or are we inviting passersby?”
“It’s not weird, is it?” I explained that we’d have no privacy in a restaurant and here we had the whole place to ourselves.
Remy shrugged. “One man’s weird is another’s everyday.” He picked up the linen napkins. “Besides, I like people with quirks.”
“Cheeky telling me I’m quirky.”
“Oh, did you think I was talking about you?”
I would have tossed a cushion at him, but it probably would have hit the candelabra and started a fire. He closed one eye and beckoned me closer.
“Come here.”
I poked out my bottom lip and strolled toward him, swaying my hips and hoping he noticed how damned hot I was.
“I love my quirks with a side of—” He studied the table. “A setting fit for a king.”
My phone buzzed with the notification the food was almost here. “Hold that thought.”
He smacked my butt as I pushed past him. “Shame. I thought I was having you for dinner.”
Shoot! Was he thinking we were giving each other blow jobs or rimming one another on the sofa or between the candles? After tipping the delivery guy with cash—I kept wads of bills just for tips, as I didn’t use it otherwise—and very shaky hands, I carried the food to the table.
“Smells heavenly.” Remy side-eyed me. “Food smells good too.”
I plonked the food down and grabbed him, putting a hand on either side of his face. “Your quips remind me of an obstacle race. I’m never quite sure what’s next.”
His smile vanished. “I can tone it down if I’m too much.”
I chuckled. “Nah. Everyone has to be who they are, and I adore you, just as you are.”
He pecked my lips and grabbed the food, saying he was starving. Me too, and though my belly was grumbling, I wished a blow job was on the menu. Peering into the bag, I confirmed none had been delivered. But Remy was right about the food smelling yummy.
