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“It’s not noticeable at all,” he answered. When I looked at him to gauge the truthfulness of his answer, I realized I’d asked him to check out my lady bits and that he was indeed inspecting them. Not like a perverted degenerate, but genuinely inspecting my situation. I couldn’t help the loud laugh that escaped.
I cleared my throat to get his attention since he was still inspecting my pants—and crotch. “Eyes back up here, buddy,” I instructed. When his eyes met mine, and he looked a little off-kilter, I added, “We’ll just try to forget you made me look like I peed my pants.”
“Normally, I like to wait until after dinner, preferably when there’s a little more privacy, to get the ladies to the point where they have to change their pants.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Sorry, bad joke.” Even he rolled his eyes at his dreadful humor.
I groaned out a laugh at the ridiculousness of his comment and our situation. “Don’t worry about it. It was an accident. You didn’t do it on purpose. Did you?”
He shook his head. It was a mishmash of an embarrassed little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar and a hot-blooded, all-American man who could melt my panties right off. The combination was oddly endearing and a tad bit unsettling. Tyler Sanderson was most definitely an enigma.
“Our table should be ready,” he said as he directed me to the front of the restaurant. I followed as our host led the way.
Tyler’s husky voice came from behind me. “Are your pants wet, or are you just happy to see me?” His hand was warm on my bare back as he guided me.
I roared with laughter as we took our seats. Tyler Sanderson was a funny guy.
His touch made me quite aware of how wet I really was. And I wasn’t sure it had everything to do with the spilled drink.
* * *
After ordering another round of drinks and a few more laughs, I threw caution to the wind and bit the bullet. There was no sense in wasting any more time.
“Okay, Tyler, here’s the thing.”
“Um, okay. Your tone is not very comforting.”
I cleared my throat. I was using my cop voice reserved for interrogations. It wasn’t intentional on my part, but considering the questions I had for him were important, it just automatically came out that way. “Sorry. I just have a few questions I’d like to get out of the way. Preliminary things, you know, before we finish our drinks and order dinner.”
He gave a quick nod. “Sure.”
“I just want to make sure we’re on the same page before we get any deeper into our date.”
“So right now, you’re just toying with the idea of spending the next few hours with me?”
“Honestly?”
He nodded.
“Yes. And I don’t know about you, but I hate wasted time.”
Another nod. “I do.” He took a drink. “And, I guess, perhaps if we’re lucky, this”—his hand flitted between the two of us—“could very well be several hours’ worth of our time.”
“Exactly.”
“What if you don’t like my answers?” He sat back in his chair with the confidence and ease of a well-practiced interrogator. “We could’ve saved all this time.” He took another sip of his drink and swallowed with a very audible and very satisfactoryAh! “If you’d just had the guts to ask me then.”
“Wow. You really have a set of balls on you, don’t you?”
He gave the space between his legs a once-over and grinned. “Um. Yes. As a matter of fact, I do.” His chuckle was hearty. “I guess they’re actually just average. But when a beautiful woman gives you a compliment, I’ve learned it’s safest to agree with her.”
“Who taught you that? Your mother?” I snorted.
“My ex-wife.”
“Oh?”
