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I sat up, glaring at my brother. Was she dropping the hint that they were moving in together, or dropping hints that he should suggest it? Or—worse—propose?
Inconceivable.
David interrupted one of these hints a minute later. “Holy shit. Is that Ryan Carter?”
Sophie’s irritation at being interrupted vanis
hed. “Really? Where?” She leaned forward to see. “Oh my God, that’s totally him. What’s he doing here?”
Only great restraint kept me from saying, “Eating, I bet.”
Ryan stood talking to the maître d’, but not, apparently, about where his table was. Ryan wore his easy-going, friendly celebrity expression, and the maître d’ made those universal hand gestures that implied plays. So quickly I almost missed it, Ryan’s eyes flicked away, scanning the room. He avoided making contact with all the faces craning towards him, like little needles pointing North. I bit back a smile. Maybe I should go rescue him.
My brother beat me to it. “Should I go say hello to him?”
Confused, I turned back to my brother. “What? No, I’ll—” I stopped. Come to think of it, I hadn’t mentioned Ryan’s name. “Since when are you so interested in football?”
“Not just football,” my brother explained patiently without looking my way. “The company’s interested in anyone like Carter. Celebrities who need a place to relax away from their fans would love San Leandro.”
I tried not to laugh. “That’s a great idea. Why don’t I go ask him?”
“Wait, no. Rachael!”
Smirking, I crossed the room before my hissing brother could make a fuss. One of the waitresses, hanging around with the apparent desire to lead Ryan to his table—my table—scowled at me, but I ignored her. The maître d’ noticed me next, and made to hustle me away from his prime customer.
When Ryan looked up and saw me, he smiled.
My stomach faltered.
That smile killed me.
The maître d’ recovered from my rude interruption. “If you’ll tell me the name of your party, Mr. Carter.”
He didn’t take his eyes off me. “This is my party.”
The staff melted away.
“Everyone’s so appalled I dare approach you,” I murmured. “Makes me want to ask you to sign my chest.”
His eyes sparkled with blue fire, kindling the same flame deep in my belly. “Really.” His gaze lowered to the lacy camisole peeping out beneath my cardigan. His smile spread slowly, like dawn over water. “Got a pen?”
I flipped my hair back, grinning up at him. “You’re not that lucky.”
“I’ll let you mark me, too,” he offered, gazing at my lips.
At which point, my dumb brother stumbled up behind us. “Mr. Carter.” He reached across me and grabbed Ryan’s hand. I sighed. Well, we were supposed to be meeting my family, not making out in a restaurant. “So good to meet you. As my sister might have told you, I represent the San Leandro property on the coast of Turkey...”
“No.” Ryan refocused. “She didn’t.”
“Oh.” This took David back a little, but not enough. After shooting me a sidelong glance, he blundered on. “Well, it’s a beautiful resort, filled with all the commodities of big city life, in the privacy of a Mediterranean island.”
Ryan looked at me, confused.
“Why don’t you come back to our table, and we can talk about it.” I tucked my arm through his.
My boldness clearly embarrassed my brother. “I don’t want to impose, Mr. Carter—I just wanted to let you know about our resort, and that if you’re interested, I would be personally happy to arrange your visit. Let me give you one of my business cards—”
“I’ll sit down.” Ryan angled a skeptical glance at me. Seriously? it seemed to ask. Why are you doing this to me?
