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She was pleased to see he’d relaxed his stance. Riley was all for gentlemanly gestures on the first date or two, but there was a mighty fine line between chivalry and chauvinism.
However, just when she was about to bump him up from Good Enough to just plain Good, he got, well … prissy.
“Oh man, it’s raining,” Steven said, doing a fussy little dance to avoid a puddle outside the restaurant.
Riley lifted an eye as she pulled her Kate Spade umbrella out of her purse and watched him pointlessly swipe at the water on his shoes.
“These are Italian,” he whined, not noticing her less-than-enamored expression.
Riley understood the reverence for Italian-made goods.
But only as it pertained to food. Pasta, in particular.
But men’s footwear? Not so much. Normally she tried to avoid double standards, but she had a lot less tolerance for shoe obsession in potential bedmates than she did in girlfriends.
Carefully hiding her disdain, she went to the curb to watch for an available cab. Despite the common misperception that Manhattan had an unlimited supply of taxis, on rainy Friday nights in the Village this couldn’t be further from the truth. Riley’s fingers turned numb right before her hand lost feeling from being held in the air for a good five minutes.
A quick glance revealed that Prince Charming was huddled beneath the restaurant awning with four other women.
Seriously?
Okay, so maybe a little machismo wouldn’t be so bad.
In the back of her head, Riley heard Emma Sinclair discreetly clear her throat. Don’t do that. Do not go searching for reasons why he’s all wrong. Nobody’s perfect.
Riley snorted.
Like Emma was one to talk. Emma was every bit as single as Riley.
Then again, Emma seemed quite happy with her status. Emma Sinclair, in all her unruffled southern belle glory, wasn’t in the midst of a rather epic dry spell like Riley.
And maybe nobody was perfect. But sometimes it felt like there was a guy that was perfect for Riley. Only it wasn’t the guy currently hiding from the elements. It wasn’t her date.
Finally a taxi deposited a group of girls in front of the restaurant, and Riley swooped in for the kill, smiling apologetically at the two men who’d made a move for the same cab.
Sorry, boys. My delicate little flower needs to get his Italian shoes out of the rain.
Steven hurried over and scooted her into the cab before sliding in and closing the door behind him.
“West Fourth and Perry, please,” Riley told the cabdriver. It was at times like these that Riley was glad she’d snatched up the West Village apartment Julie had left behind when she’d moved in with Mitchell. Riley still considered herself a Brooklyn girl, born and raised, but there were times when a Manhattan address was priceless.
Rainy booty-call nights were definitely one of those times. At least she was pretty sure. One would have to have actually had a booty call to be positive.
Although with each passing second, Riley’s determination to give Steven Moore a front-row seat to her garter belt was fading.
Particularly since he was still fussing with the shoes.
“They’re ruined,” he muttered.
All right. Enough of this.
“So, on a scale of getting laid off, to, say … getting a terminal illness, where would you say the ruination of Italian leather falls?” she asked sweetly.
Steven stared at her in surprise, and then, to her relief, he gave a sheepish laugh. “I’m being a baby, huh?”
Oh no. Much worse than any baby I’ve ever known.
“A little,” she agreed. “But I get it. I’m pretty attached to some of my shoes too.”
