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There was the faintest tremor in my hand as I reached for it, the cool glass comforting against the tips of my fingers which were still sensitive from the healing cuts.
Sipping the wine, I savored the fruity notes—Aidan always knew what I liked best—and I tapped the menu so he’d know what I wanted.
All the while, I kept my gaze locked on him as he dealt with the intruder and gave him my order of deconstructed shepherd’s pie. Aidan requested a steak.
"I like having all your attention," he rumbled, turning to me once we were alone.
"In a room full of people? Or just in general?"
He snagged his own glass and drank. "In general, but mostly, here. Especially when I know what your body is going through."
"Experienced a vibrator against your clit, have you?" I teased, enjoying his husky laughter. Before he could joke with me, I leaned into him and, knowing his guard was down and that his gaze was on my tits, questioned, "Is this a front?"
"Perhaps." He grinned at me, well aware of my game. His fingers tangled with mine, the tips rubbing down my digits. The simple act, so unsexual, had my heart pounding as if he’d slipped his hand between my thighs. "Who else would back an Irish chef with his eyes on a Michelin star that served grub from the Old Country?"
"Only your da," I said with a shake of my head.
"Exactly." His disapproval was clear. But he didn’t comment on that, just took another sip of his own wine. "Do you like it?"
"The restaurant or the wine?"
"Both."
"The wine is good. You know I’ll drink it from a box though."
"Heathen."
I liked that he used the same word I had to describe myself.
"As for the restaurant—" I hesitated. "It's very gray."
"That's whatglasmeans in Irish Gaelic."
"Gray?"
He nodded.
I peered around the gray-on-gray-on-gray decor. "It reminds me of those prison cells. Either that or as if a Scandinavian designer came in here and vomited."
"Those cells are white."
That he knew what I was talking about didn't come as a surprise.
"How do you know that? Are you a mind reader?"
Aidan shot me an amused glance. "I guess. Only where you’re concerned, unfortunately."
"Those prisons are illegal, aren't they?"
"Yes. Doesn't mean they don't exist."
"White cells, white food, white clothes, white everything. It's no wonder people go crazy."
"I'm not sure you comparing this restaurant to a prison dedicated to white torture bodes well for the chef's hopes and dreams."
His mocking tone had me snorting into my glass. "No, I suppose not."
His head tipped to the side as he studied me. "How are you doing?"
