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I am clearly not that girl. But instead of grossing Theo out, I think I’m turning him on. Which doesn’t make sense. Not if Theo’s who I thought he was.
Who is this guy? Why do I care?
I can’t afford to care. Not when so much is at stake.
“Dip was good,” I say. “Sandwich is better.”
Theo angles his head to the side to take a huge bite of his sandwich. “I know. Now eat.”
The bill comes, and while I’m reaching for my purse and rummaging around for my card, Theo throws a wad of cash on the bar and tells the bartender to keep the change.
“Wow,” she says. “Thank you so much.”
I catch a glimpse of the bills just before she whisks them away. Wow indeed. I think Theo just tipped her over fifty percent.
And now he’s getting up and lifting my jacket off the back of my chair and holding it up for me to put on. The funny feeling in my chest won’t quit. Neither will the desire that seeps deeper and deeper into my skin at this man’s every gesture tonight.
“You’re being weird,” I say as I put my arms through my jacket sleeves. He helps me the rest of the way into it, fingertips grazing the nape of my neck. I bite my lip.
He steps aside, letting me head for the door in front of him. “Weird good or weird bad?”
“You’re being nice.” I open the door and step out into the cool night air, shivering.
He moves a little closer, our elbows bumping. “So?”
“You paid for my dinner. Thanks, by the way. And that tip you left—super generous.”
He grunts. “I only had hundreds on me.”
“You could’ve asked for change.”
“Are you always such an observant pain in the ass?” Theo walks around me so he’s on the outside of the sidewalk, next to the road. He slides his hands into his pockets and looks at his feet. “My mom’s been a waitress for thirty-five years. I know how much tips matter. Where am I dropping you off?”
I stop, the toes of my shoes catching on the concrete at the same time something catches inside my chest.
His mom. He’s talking to me about his family.
More. He stops beside me, and I search his face and silently beg him to tell me more. The fact that she’s a waitress—that he’s confiding in me this way—feels monumental. Not because it isn’t at all what I expected to hear about his parents, but because he’s letting me in. Giving me a glimpse of who he really is. Goddamnit, I like what I see.
He’s different, and I appreciate that more than he knows. Not many people in my world have this kind of sensitivity—this kind of generosity and awareness—and it’s wildly attractive.
I want to know more about his mom. What sticks out isn’t the fact that she waits tables for a living, but that she raised a son like Theo. He’s not a simple person by any means, but I’m starting to suspect he’s a good one.
“Second best fried chicken sandwich,” I say. “You said that because your mom’s is the best, isn’t it?”
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Yes.”
If that’s not the cutest thing I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is. Man loves his mama.
I wait for him to elaborate. I’m disappointed when he doesn’t. “I’m at the Four Seasons,” I say.
“Me too. C’mon, we have an early wake-up.” We may be on the West Coast, but the markets operate on East Coast time, meaning the morning call starts tomorrow at 4:15 a.m. our time.
He turns away and starts walking. I follow him, arms crossed over my chest, as I scramble to think of something I could say to keep the conversation going. The real conversation, not logistics or the innuendo-laden back and forth.
“You know,” I begin, “I came out here for the first time when I’d just been promoted to associate. Fell in love with Santa Barbara on the spot.”
“First visit to BamCo?”
I shake my head. “It was the first non-work-related trip I ever took solo. My parents had just separated, and I wanted to put as much distance as I could between that mess and my mess. I ended up staying for two weeks.”
His steps slow. He looks at me, the light from a nearby streetlamp catching on his eyes. “How could you ever have been a mess?”
“Morgan, I got baked every morning and then took my coffee to the beach, where I alternated between crying and reading Tessa Dare novels. I got so sunburned people at work called me Freddie Krueger for months after I got back.”
“Please tell me you read the Scottish one.”
For a second I think I misheard him. My heart skips a beat. “The Scottish one?”
“Tessa’s book—the one set in Scotland. It’s one of my sisters’ few obsessions I actually encourage. I like how empowered the heroine is. She takes no shit from the hero.”
