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Ivy
Oneweekafterhis mother’s party, Chase invited me out to dinner. Even though we had eaten out and had takeout at Chase’s place on a regular basis, according to him, this was our first proper date.
Chase, acting like a gentleman, pulled out a chair for me at Blake’s, a restaurant that was booked months in advance.
“How did you arrange this?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard over the noise. The restaurant’s shiny surfaces and marble floors amplified sounds. And everyone else was talking loudly over the clanging of plates, the clip-clopping of heels, and the laughter.
“Elliot’s worked on their opening campaign, and I promised to redesign a new campaign for free.”
“Wow, that’s amazing,” I said. “A barter of sorts.”
“Yep. Only, I’m paying tonight. The deal was just to get this table.” He pointed to the window that looked out to Central Park.
“I’ve read about this place. I’m looking forward to it, I must admit.” I really was. I could consume meat guilt-free with the man of my dreams. Life didn’t get much better than that.
I had to keep remembering to breathe. Chase looked smoking hot in a fitted navy blazer worn over a turquoise shirt that hugged his rippling torso.
After pouring a sample into my glass, the waiter asked if the red wine was to my liking. As I was someone who drank anything, it tasted great to me. Chase, performing his rich-man-of-fine-tastes role, sniffed the wine and savored it as a connoisseur would, then he nodded.
He looked at me and shook his head. “What?”
“You’re such a poseur.” I chuckled.
His eyes shone with mischief. “You weren’t complaining last night.”
He got that right.
“Yes, you’re a great lover. I’ll give you that.”
He turned down his mouth. “So, you only like me for my body?”
“We haven’t really spoken much, have we?”
“Let’s start now. What’s your favorite book?”
I was about to answer when the waiter delivered the menus. After he set them down, I said, “That’s like asking me my favorite color. I like lots of books.”
“But you must like one the most?”
“What’s yours?” I asked.
“I haven’t got one. I don’t read,” he said.
“You’re illiterate?” I smirked.
“No.” He rolled his eyes. “I meant I don’t read novels. I used to read comics.”
I laughed. “Didn’t you have to read at college?”
“Yep. Great Gatsby. Catcher in the Rye. To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“Well, there you go,” I said.
He rubbed his stubbled jaw. “I’m pretty shallow, Ivy. There’s not a lot to me, I’m afraid. Hunter’s the bookworm in the family.”
“You say that as if you’re a disappointment,” I said.
“Mm… perhaps. I think I’m finally maturing.”
