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“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?”
“I write on assignment for Hannah,” I say, dodging the question. “She has —”
“Can I interest you in our charcuterie, Mr. Riordan?” a different woman asks, cutting me off, smoothing a white napkin over her wrist.
“Not just yet, thank you,” he answers her politely, then redirects his attention to me.
His eyes lock back on mine, his face crinkling into a smile. He has dimples that rise vertically along his cheeks, almost up to his eyes. Serious, emphatic dimples. Dimples that mean something.
“Did I mention how pleased I am that you asked me to come here?” he murmurs, his dimples creasing even further if that's possible.
I nod awkwardly, unsure what else to do. I feel my palms getting wet. My heart starts to race. Why is he
making such a big deal about me asking him? Weren’t we both asked? Why am I not saying anything? Should I be saying something? Suddenly I feel like there was supposed to be an agenda for this, and I have forgotten everything on it. Is it an interview? Should I have questions?
“Still water or sparkling, Mr. Riordan?” yet another server asks. Are you kidding me with this?
I need a plan. I need to do something. What would my storybook character be doing at this point? I can’t just be sitting here, disarmed and stuttering like a terrified child.
Before I know it, I'm leaning toward him. My hand slides around to find the back support of his chair so that I'm not falling, exactly, but definitely tilting forward. It’s happening so quickly, I'm not even sure he's reciprocating. My lips find his lips, slide along them. I hear him suck in his breath, but then realize I'm kissing him and he's kissing me back. His lips are soft, gentle, curious. Then firm, then firmer. His tongue darts playfully under the rim of my upper lip, and he inhales me, sucking the breath out of me.
When we finally separate, I'm breathless, dizzy, totally confused and off-kilter. But at least I made a move. I’m the boss. For now.
But I'm smiling, too. I can feel the tension in my cheeks. His eyes dance with mirth and his lips remain open as though he's about to say something.
“Was that all right?” I ask, finally finding my voice. It's not a purr, but it will have to do.
He nods, dazzling me again with that bright, beautiful smile. “More than all right. Perfect.”
“I just wanted to move past some of the more awkward formalities,” I explain shyly, but with a playful lilt in my voice so he might wonder if I do this sort of thing all the time.
“Brilliant plan,” he grins. “I did not see that coming at all.”
“So, now that we’re past all that… is it all right if I call you Emmet?”
He tips his head to the side, pulling back just a bit.
“Well, I'd sort of rather you didn't,” he confides. “I'm Dillon.”
CHAPTER 6
