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She pursed her lips, the corners turning up. “It’s nothing exciting, I assure you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Picky eater?”
Wren laughed. It was a bubbly sound that had my own laugh beginning to roil in my chest. “Nope.”
“Allergies?”
She smiled and shook her head. “No.”
I looked her up and down. She was thin but not emaciated. She obviously treated her body well. Her bare arms were exceptionally toned. “Diet?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is that something you usually ask a lady the first time you meet her?”
“Color me curious.”
She laughed, though it was laced with nerves this time. “I guess you could call it that.”
“Lifestyle or fitness diet?” I prodded, narrowing it down.
Wren beamed. “Fitness.”
Before I could get another word in, the waiter returned with Wren’s glass of water. At least I wasn’t the only one not drinking. He cleared his throat and flipped open his notepad. “Your usual, MissPorter?”
She shot me a sneaky wink and nodded at the waiter. “Yes. Thank you, Thomas.”
The waiter—Thomas—turned to me. “And for you, sir?”
I closed my menu without having even perused it. “I’ll have whatever the lovely MissPorter is having.”
Wren’s mouth gaped open. “Oh—you really should—”
But the waiter was already plucking our menus from the table and hurrying to put the order in.
“So,” I began. “What am I eating for dinner tonight?”
Wren trailed her finger through the beads of condensation on her glass. “A boring plate of roasted chicken, sweet potatoes, and rice pilaf.”
Damn. I had been a little worried that her “usual” was something weird like escargot or liver. But that sounded like what I ate every single day. “Sounds good to me.”
Her eyebrows raised just a sliver. “I’ll have to make sure our next date is somewhere a little more exciting.”
“So, this is a date?”
Her face paled. “Client dinner,” she clarified. Amusement danced in those powder blue eyes. “If it’s a client dinner, I’m paying.” She paused and looked me up and down. “If it was a date, you’d be paying. Or we’d go Dutch.”
My debit card started burning a hole in my pocket.
We shared a basket of assorted bread while Wren asked questions about what I wanted to see done in my new condo. It was less intrusive than I expected. Mostly just her wanting to know what was important to me.
“I travel a lot for work,” I said as I slathered butter on a piece of brown bread that had flecks of oats baked on top. “I’m gone just about every other weekend. It’s looking a little ‘bachelor pad’ right now. I want it to feel comfortable. Like home, you know? Nice, but homey.” I cracked a grin. “I’m not a frat boy anymore. I don’t throw house parties.”
Wren stifled a laugh and nodded as she jotted down notes on her tablet dutifully. She had been looking down for most of the conversation as she perused schematics and floorplans. It allowed me to study her without looking like a total creep.
Her blonde hair was in soft curls that grazed her shoulders. It bounced whenever she moved, fitting for her bubbly personality. Her makeup was light, simply highlighting her features rather than hiding them.
She and I were nearly complete opposites. Her pale skin to my dark skin. Her blue eyes to my brown ones. She had a dusting of light freckles across her nose. I was six-foot-five, whereas she was probably just a little over five and a half feet tall. My muscles were bulky; hers were tight and well toned. Even covered by a modest dress, her figure was sleek and sexy like a luxury sports car.
“Tell me about your lifestyle,” she said, looking up from her tablet. Those blue eyes were going to haunt me in my sleep. “Do you like entertaining? Cooking? Having guests over?”
