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And trust me, with a hungry pregnant woman in the group, food is more important than everything else.
In record time, and much to Cass’s excitement and pregnancy cravings, we were sitting at a table in the back of the restaurant and enjoying our meals. Her propensity for keeping the conversation moving and shaking was quickly quelled once her giant, albeit well-done, steak was set before her.
I ate my lobster risotto until I felt too full to continue and proceeded to work on my third glass of stupidly expensive wine, courtesy of Wes Lancaster. I knew I was a bit of a lightweight when it came to alcohol, but I couldn’t deny this was probably the best Pinot Noir I had ever tasted in my life.
While I drank, and everyone else ate, I couldn’t stop fixating on this nagging thought that had been in my brain since I got off the plane. Had Wes really been staring at my ass? And why in the hell did he not even attempt to avert his eyes?
I felt like he wanted me to know he was looking, which only confused me more. I mean, this was a man whose disdain for me was evident in most of our interactions.
I was mindfucked and far too emboldened by alcohol to stop myself from finding answers. Throwing caution to the wind—well, the wine, really—I took my phone out of my purse and typed out a text.
Me: Were you really staring at my ass on the plane?
I watched Wes as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and scanned my text. His brow furrowed, and he met my eyes from the across the table as he typed out a response.
Wes: I have no idea what you’re talking about, Dr. Winslow.
Bullshit. I raised a questioning brow in his direction, and he appeared unfazed as I tapped out my rebuttal.
Me: Yeah, you do.
He grinned once my message reached his phone.
Wes: Do you want me to stare at your ass?
His gaze turned cocky, and it took all of my willpower not to reach across the table and smack him. Instead of drawing the attention of everyone in the room with an outrageous display of violence, I chose the next best thing.
Me: No. And it’s completely unprofessional to say something like that, Mr. Lancaster.
Wes: Is it unprofessional when you’re staring at my ass as well?
He was calling my bluff. There was no way he knew I had a secret fetish for watching his perfectly toned and damn near bitable ass. I was far too covert during my ass-ogle missions…right?
Me: I do not stare at your ass.
Wes: It’s okay, sweetheart. I don’t mind.
Me: This feels like sexual harassment.
Wes: I’m pretty sure you started this conversation.
Me: Only because I caught you memorizing the curves of my ass like there was going to be a pop quiz on it later.
Wes: And your legs.
Aha! I knew it. I couldn’t stop a satisfied smile from cresting my lips, but I hated the fact that my enjoyment over his response had nothing to do with proving him wrong. I liked that he had been checking me out. Far too much, if I was truly being honest with myself.
Me: That is so inappropriate.
Wes: Those sexy fucking heels and skirts you prance around in are the only things that are inappropriate.
I looked up from my phone and found him smiling smugly in my direction. My eyes shot a death glare as I typed out another response.
Me: I do not prance.
He nodded.
Wes: You prance.
God, I hated how pleased he looked with himself. That smug smile would’ve looked better covered in a plateful of my lobster risotto.
Me: Could your suits be any tighter by the way?
Wes: I could have my tailor make some adjustments if that’s something you’d enjoy.
Me: You look ridiculous. Like you’re two breaths away from your muscles ripping the seams.
Wes: You like my muscles?
Me: No. It’s completely unattractive to be that ripped.
Wes: So, it’s safe to say Nick is more beanpole in comparison?
My brow furrowed. How in the hell did he know about Nick? I met his persistent gaze until the lightbulb went off…my phone call with Remy on the plane.
Me: Eavesdropping on my conversations is rude.
Wes: You were on speakerphone, sweetheart. You made that conversation everyone on the plane’s business.
Me: It’s even ruder to point that out.
Wes: Tell me, Winnie. What happened a year ago?
Me: None of your fucking business.
I could feel Wes’s eyes on me as I set my phone down on the table and did my best to avoid speaking with him, hell, even looking at him, for the rest of the evening. I knew that was the best decision. My track record with wine and attraction to men who were bad news was not good.
What happened a year ago? I mean, seriously? That was none of his concern. And why would he even ask that question? He had no right to know anything about my dating life…or lack thereof.
