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“Maybe the next time we meet, I’ll be the only thing that steals your attention.”
He was leaning against the staircase railing. He’d removed his jacket, leaving him in only a button-down shirt and dress pants. His hair was messy, and he looked more relaxed than the first time I’d met him. He stalked over to me, and I was sure I had stopped breathing.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“My friends wouldn’t let me,” I stupidly confessed. Come on, Felicity, this is about you!
“Good.” He held out a hand.
I smirked. “You want my cell phone again?”
“Your hand will suffice,” he replied, still waiting.
“I’ll keep my hands to myself for the time being,” I answered, placing them behind my back and leaning in. “Isn’t that the game we’re playing? You tell me to do something, I say no, yet you get me to do it anyway?”
“Ms. Harper,” he whispered as he stepped closer, his face hovering over mine. “I’m doing my best to be a gentlemen right now, and not the man who wants to slowly peel that dress off and fuck you on my couch, because I know we wouldn’t make it to my bedroom. So give me your hand.”
Just like that. That’s how he gets me to do what he wants.
I placed my hand in his, and he led me toward the dining room.
There was a long, dark wood table. He pulled out a chair and seated me before walking to the opposite end.
“I half expected food to already be waiting,” I said as I unrolled the napkin and placed it on my lap. The only thing on the table was water and bread.
“Léon,” he called, and out of nowhere, a French chef who looked to be in his mid-to-late forties appeared from what I guessed was the kitchen.
“Are you ready to order, Mr. Darcy?”
Theodore looked at me. “There was no way for food to be waiting when I didn’t know what you like to eat. Say it, and Léon will bring it.”
Léon turned to me, waiting patiently.
“Anything?” I asked the man across from me. It felt like a challenge.
“You will learn I say what I mean, Ms. Harper,” he countered.
Ass.
I smiled at Léon. “Soupe au poulet épicé chili peppers avec de.”
“Oui, et à boire?” He smiled, asking what I wanted to drink.
“A Domaine Coche-Dury Corton-Charlemagne,” Theodore cut in with a perfect French accent, stealing my moment.
“Année?” Léon turned to face him, the smile dropping from his lips like he’d just remembered who else was in the room.
“Two thousand five—”
“Two thousand two,” I interrupted, reaching for my glass of water. “If you can manage it.”
His eyebrow rose. “I can have him bring out a 1990 bottle if you’d like.”
“You’ll learn, Mr. Darcy, that I say what I mean.” I winked before I took a sip.
Whoa, Felicity. Calm yourself.
“A 2002 bottle it is, then,” he said to Léon, who quietly excused himself, leaving us alone to stare at each other over glasses of water, bread, and candlelight.
