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"I think that’s why we should at least have dinner together," I tell Abby. "Away from these two," I say, gesturing toward our agents.
"Might give us a chance to…brainstorm?" Abby asks, emphasizing the word brainstorm.
I have no idea why the fuck that was sexy, but my cock seems to be leaking fucking precum at the mention of Abby saying 'brainstorm' the way she just did.
"How about 8 tomorrow, at Del Posto?" I ask.
Her eyes go big.
"Don’t worry, I’m buying," I tell her. Abby nods. Dinner at Del Posto can cost up to $1000 for two people. It’s a good thing I can bill this all to CJ.
"Tomorrow at 8," Abby says, almost entranced.
"It’s a date, darlin’," I tell her as I get up from the booth. "Are any of your book boyfriends as smooth as this?" I ask as I turn around to go.
"All of them," Abby replies. I smile.
She’ll find out just how smooth. Soon enough.
The games have only just begun.
Abby
"Keep it professional, Abby, you don’t want to screw this up."
"Of course I’ll keep it professional," I tell Cheryl, my cell phone pressed against my ear. "You know me."
"Yeah, I know you… That’s why I’m telling you this," she replies with a sigh, and I can picture the look of exasperation she must have on her face right now. God bless her; I’m not exactly the easiest writer (or person, for that matter) to manage.
"Don’t worry, Cheryl, I promise I won’t screw this up." Although I can’t promise if I won’t allow Aidan to, ahem, screw me. I mean, it’s not like I’m being proactive about it, but how do I even stop my brain from thinking about it? This guy is the consummate fantasy material. All alone but wet? He’s the perfect man candy; just close your eyes and let your mind (and fingers) do the rest. No wonder he used to be the go-to guy for romance covers. Still, it’s surprising that he managed to keep working in the industry for so long; he burned so many bridges you’d think he was fighting in Vietnam.
"I’m there," I tell her, looking out the window of my Uber and seeing the low-key entrance to Del Posto, the restaurant we agreed on for today’s meeting.
"Okay, Abby. Good luck, and don’t forget to--"
"Act professional, I know, I know. Bye, Cheryl," I finish off, ending the call and stuffing my cellphone back into my purse. I mouth a quick thank you at the driver, and get out of the car as soon as it halts to stop.
"You’re a punctual one, aren’t you?" I hear someone say, and I turn on my heels to meet Aidan’s gaze. He’s getting out of a cab, and he looks like someone cut him out of a magazine cover; he’s wearing a tailored suit, all black, and there’s that panty-dropper smile on his lips.
"Look who’s talking," I shoot right back, flashing him a smile of my own. To be honest, I’m really not that punctual, and the fact that I got here on time is a small miracle. But he doesn’t need to know that; professionals are never late, are they?
"Shall we?" he asks me, offering me his arm. I take it, feeling as if I’m being led by a gentleman from the 20s instead of a untamable bad boy; I guess there’s more to Aidan than meets the eye.
We walk inside Del Posto arm-in-arm, and the host greets us merrily and asks for our names. After checking the reservation list, she then hands us off to a middle-aged gangly waiter with a slight Italian accent.
"Please, follow me to the Gattinara," he tells us with a smile wider than the host’s, and we follow after him.
I’m about to ask Aidan what the hell is a Gattinara, but then I purse my lips and stop the words from coming out. He’s acting as if it’s an obvious thing, and I don’t want to sound uncultured. The waiter leads us down a set of stairs, and then takes a turn to what looks like an upscale wine cellar. In the middle of the room there’s a small round table covered with a white cloth, and right in the center is a chandelier with five lit candles. Are we going to dine here? This looks expensive, especially now that I’m a writer with a dwindling bank account.
"Enjoy your dinner," the waitress says, and then nods respectfully before disappearing so fast you’d think he just vanished in thin air.
We take our seat, and I look around the room, realizing that this is a private dining area. How the hell am I going to afford this? Besides, what the hell is a Gattinawhatever? I give up. "What’s a Gattina -- you know, what he said, what is it?"
"The Gattinara? It’s the Del Posto’s private dining room," he says, waving his hand at the space around us.
"Hmm, it looks expensive," I force myself to say. I don’t want him to see me as a cheap skate, but I really can’t afford to blow my savings on expensive dinners.
"It is expensive," he agrees, pushing the menu to the side as if he already knows what’s in there. "But don’t worry about it, a friend of mine working here owes me a favor and… here we are," he adds, looking me straight in the eyes. The words keep on coming out of his mouth, but I barely hear what he’s saying. I’m just staring at him, watching the way his lips move and imagining how it’d feel to kiss him.
