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When the server was gone, I turned my attention back to Maverick.
He was unfairly gorgeous with his bright blue eyes and dark hair that was just the right amount of messy. You know the kind—the kind you wanted to run your fingers through, especially once you knew how soft it was.
And it was.
His hair.
Soft.
Ahem.
Earth to Piper.
“I’m going to make this very clear,” I said firmly, keeping my voice low. “I do not want to be here. I want to be anywhere other than here, I didn’t consent to this date, I didn’t want this date, I didn’t ask for this date, and this date is going nowhere.”
Maverick sat back, a smile tugging at his lips. “So why are you still here?”
“Because the food smells really good and I’m hungry,” I admitted. “But I’m paying for my dinner and when I’m done, I’m leaving.”
“Okay, fair enough.” He held up his hands as our drinks were brought over.
We asked for a couple more minutes for our food, and we both picked up a menu. Silence reigned supreme for the minutes we both scanned it, and I settled on a good old spaghetti Bolognese with garlic bread on the side. Our server returned and I ordered, then so did Maverick.
And he ordered the same as me.
I stared flatly at him. “How awkward.”
“Nah, I love spaghetti Bolognese. Best Italian food there is, and I’d know. I’ve been to Italy.”
I rolled my eyes. Please. Like anything was better than pizza. “So you have a new book coming out?”
Another smile tugged at his lips. “In a year. I still have to finish writing it. I’m hitting a block.”
“Seems like a long time away to be planning a signing.”
“That’s how the publisher likes to do it. Get it all locked down, especially for an in-person tour.” He sipped his beer. “What about you?”
“What about me what?”
“What do you do?”
That’s right. I hadn’t ever told him. “Oh, I own the bakery here in town. Queen of Tarts.”
His eyes flashed. “Do you do all the baking?”
“Yes. I went to culinary school in Vegas, got experience with a major chain out there, and happened to come into some money as the previous owners were selling.”
“Nice when things work out.”
Yeah. Nicer if that money had come from the lottery instead of a psychotic stalker.
“Mm,” I demurred. “I haven’t been open long and that’s why I don’t really have time to date. I’m trying to get it sorted so I can franchise.”
Maverick raised his eyebrows. “Franchising? That’s a dream right there.”
“Nobody ever got successful by being happy with where they were.” I shrugged, reaching for my drink. “I’m a dreamer, what can I say?”
“You’re talking to an author. If anyone knows anything about dreaming, it’s me.”
“Yeah, but you have voices in your head. It’s a little different.”
This time, he cracked a whole smile. “No kidding. I’m just grateful that the voices in my head don’t get me in trouble.”
“I don’t know. Have you been on Twitter? They’re pretty passionate about books over there.”
“No. As a rule, I avoid Twitter. That’s what social media assistants are for.” He shrugged. “Too much arguing to deal with.”
He wasn’t wrong there.
Felicity was the one who handled all our social media. I simply didn’t have the time… Or the inclination.
Our food was brought out at this point, and we both tucked into our spaghetti dishes with little chatter. I was glad of that—it meant I didn’t have to come up with a topic of conversation. On the other hand, it was annoying that we were eating the same thing and I had to keep some semblance of good manners so I couldn’t complain about it.
Also, it was annoying that I was daydreaming about what he looked like naked.
Ugh.
Apparently, I was a whore for more than just carbs.
I was an ab whore, too.
But sit me down and slap me silly, I was all about a man who loved books.
Which meant that Maverick was danger with a capital D.
I had to come up with a way to explain to Holley why this date hadn’t worked. I knew I couldn’t just say he wasn’t the right guy for me because we both knew he ticked all my boxes of the kind of guy I liked.
If he were anyone else, I’d consider dating him.
But he was exactly the kind of guy my ass needed to stay away from. I knew enough about him to know that he was a womanizer, the guy of guy who flitted from woman to woman, and while I myself wasn’t against a lifestyle like that, I wasn’t interested in dating someone who was.
Especially when that someone could write smoking hot sex scenes from a male perspective.
Why was it so much hotter to read sex in a male perspective than a female one?
“Do you want dessert? Another drink?”
