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Andrew
SUNDAY NIGHT, DINNER
Andrew took a sip of his wine, watching in bemusement as Georgiana chatted animatedly with the server.
Not about the specials, not about the wine list, but about the man’s new Yorkie-Poo, which, based on the description, Andrew could only assume resembled a fancy rat.
Just when he thought the other man would do something crazy like take their food order, Georgiana demanded pictures.
Andrew sat back in his chair in resignation as the server pulled an iPhone out of his back pocket and proceeded to show Georgiana an endless slide show of a small dog named Macaroon, who apparently had just been gifted a brand-new sweater. Ridiculous. No wonder Georgiana was enthralled.
But whereas just a few weeks ago Andrew would have been irritated by such frivolousness, tonight he found he was…charmed.
The woman was just so damn vivacious, drawing people to her with every breath. Everyone liked Georgiana.
And she’d chosen him. Somehow, this gorgeous, compelling creature seemed to want to spend time with him.
But for how long? He knew there was a ticking time bomb, but she didn’t. At least, he didn’t think she did. He’d know more when he could actually speak with her, rather than have to listen to a discussion of gluten-free dog treats.
She caught his eye and winked, and instantly he felt a bit of the tension in his shoulders ease. Georgiana looked beautiful tonight, but then, he supposed she did every night.
Her long hair was pulled back and piled high on her head, with a few pieces falling to her shoulders—shoulders he knew were the perfect combination of sharp angles and soft skin and tasted like vanilla.
Andrew was suddenly glad that she was wearing a sweater. He didn’t want any other man knowing those shoulders the way he did. He didn’t want to share any part of her, even with a flamboyant waiter who Andrew was reasonably sure had no interest in any of Georgiana’s body parts.
Shit. He was screwed. How had this woman gone from being the aggravating menace of his early mornings to the center of everything?
Since the second she’d walked out the door for brunch this morning, he’d been painfully conscious of the clock, obnoxiously aware of how many hours it would be until he’d see her again.
Finally the server moved away. He’d forgotten to take their order, but that suited Andrew just fine. He didn’t mind prolonging their dinner.
Then Georgiana’s tongue flicked out, catching a drop of wine, and suddenly Andrew minded the delay very much. He wanted her in his bed, her hair on his pillow, her soft curves beneath him.
She was watching him. “You’re scowling, Andy.”
“Perhaps because you’re calling me Andy?”
“I can’t help it. Punishment for you still calling me Georgiana, even after we—”
He lifted his eyebrows. “After we…?” Then he blinked, stunned by what he was seeing. “Georgiana. Are you blushing?”
She took a sip of water. “No. It’s just hot in here.”
He leaned forward. “Bet we could make it a lot hotter if we left here.”
“Don’t even try. You promised to feed me. No handsy stuff until I get fed. Did you see the fish and chips go by? Glorious.”
“Sure, if you enjoy food fried in trans fats,” he said.
“Um, everyone enjoys those foods,” she said, opening the menu.
Andrew took another sip of his wine. “Do your weekly brunches with your parents include similarly caloric nightmares?”
“Depends—it changes every week. Used to be my mom was pretty health-conscious, always worried about my dad’s cholesterol, but she’s loosened up in recent years. Maybe she decided life’s too short to not indulge in a croissant from time to time.”
“You enjoy these…brunches?”
She looked up and smiled. “You sound a little like someone who’s trying to understand a foreign culture but can’t figure out the weird customs.”
