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I’ll be happy to leave all that behind, after this final push toward legitimacy.
It actually takes us twenty minutes to get there, and I realize I managed to get twenty minutes of notes into my phone. I haven't even met the guy for a drink yet, and I've already written probably three thousand words about getting my panties on. At this rate, I'll have a novel by the end of next week.
Wait a second… a novel? Hm. Maybe I should…
No, I have my orders. It’s just an article. Hannah would throw a fit if I tried to change that up.
The car door swings open, letting in a blast of summer sunlight. It's golden and rich, filtered through the gilded leaves of Streeterville, only Chicago's most expensive neighborhood for the last hundred fifty years in a row.
“Thank you,” I mumble as I take his hand and rise to the sidewalk. I notice that people are looking at me as I walk into The Copper. It's a very exclusive location. They're probably wondering who I'm there to service.
I see him immediately. He is actually impossible to miss. Handsome and confident, he sits with his elbow on the table, staring into the face of his phone. A half-handful of dark, shiny hair dangles across his unlined brow. His cheekbones are so sharp they cast a shadow. Every few seconds, his broad chest inflates, expanding the width of the opening of his linen shirt. His skin is a tawny glow.
Jesus. He’s gorgeous.
There are a half dozen people around him, swooping back and forth like satellites caught in his gravity. Yes, Mr. Riordan. Certainly, Mr. Riordan, they mewl obsequiously. Everybody is at his beck and call. Just look at him. It kind of turns my stomach to see.
But he looks up like he knows I’m there, grinning broadly when he sees me. Am I late? Or was he early? That seems like a strangely polite thing for billionaire to do, doesn't it?
He rises as I walk forward, holding his hands out as though he is a spokesmodel, and I am the prize he's been hired to described.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his voice completely sincere. “I like you in blue.”
“Will your companion be having the Japanese whisky?” the waiter asks him (not me), swooping back and forth and staring as he leads me to the chair at the back of the table. I slide into it as he holds it out for me.
I'm totally disarmed. Everything I planned on saying sort of crumbles away like a sand castle under a rising tide.
“Thank you,” I force myself to mutter. My voice sounds dry. Little bits of it break off in the air and float away like sand in the water.
“Is that your favorite color?”
I take a deep breath. So, this is happening. We’re doing the first date questionnaire.
“No,” I admit. “It’s pink.”
His eyebrows go up as a small smirk puckers the corner of his mouth. His lips are full and velvety-looking. I can see why so many women have wanted to get on them.
“That’s a very feminine choice,” he remarks.
“Is a favorite color a choice?” I shrug. “I would have thought it came built-in. Like in your DNA.”
“Yeah, that could be,” he continues.
His gaze is direct and unwavering, and it takes a lot to just sit here and let him look at me like that. Is that supposed to be part of his charm? I feel like I need a blanket or a curtain or something. Like he’s a peeping tom trying to see into my brain.
“Well, so…” I press on, trying to think about what humans might say to each other on dates. “What’s your favorite color?” I ask lamely.
“Money,” he answers promptly. “That’s in my DNA too. So I guess you’re right.”
“Gotcha,” I scoff, unsure if I’m supposed to laugh at that or swoon. I finger the hem of my dress, and then force myself not to fidget.
His eyes are dark but intense, ringed by thick lashes. His hands look strong. I bet he works out. I try not to measure him with my eyes, but make a mental note to do that later, when he’s not looking. I’ll need all these details for the book. I mean, for the article.
“So what is it you do for me, Bella?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh! That explains your wit. And will you be writing about this?”
