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Way to go, Harper. Way to spook the child. It’s not Halloween! That’s not okay!
“Divorced,” I somehow manage to fumble out with an embarrassed face scrunch. “We got a divorce a couple years ago. We don’t date anymore. Like we have dinner and hang out and stuff sometimes but like he’s not – he won’t be – this isn’t a meal with him.”
He slowly nods his understanding. “Is that the reason I haven’t seen you in far too long?”
“You mean us.”
“No, I mean you.”
The corner of Tate’s mouth curls upward, and my fingers twitch to reach out and touch it. To caress the cockiness, he exudes and curl his confidence around my freshly manicured finger.
Ah, to be young.
And unscathed.
And unfucked in the ass by the masochist that is life.
“Flirting won’t make me tip you more,” I lie on a sly smile.
“I’d rather you leave me your number than a tip,” Tate fires back, hands being folded behind his back.
Disbelief has me quietly croaking, “What?!”
Laughter – a sound so sweet, so intoxicating that the glass of Moscato I was planning to order now seems unnecessary – pours out of him prior to another smug smirk. “Is the question in regard to wanting your number more than a tip or to me wanting your number at all?”
“That one.”
The too bright for indoor lighting grin remains. “Well, I need your number in order to properly ask you out.”
“Out where?”
“On a date is the idea.”
“Why…why…why would you be,” my flailing fingers can’t stop throwing up what look like gang signs, “doing that? Why would you…want to? Did you lose a bet with someone?”
“No.”
“Desperation of a dry spell?”
“Not at all.”
“Then why…,” the spoken spiraling continues out of control, “why is that…something you think you want?”
“I know I want it.”
Cripes, that sounds sinfully sexy with his accent.
“And for clarification purposes, are we putting aside how bloody sexy you are?”
Let me just say that his casual question absolutely has me now feeling it.
Okay, I know I’m not unattractive to the male population in general. I’ve seen the amount of eyes on my ass and tits when I’m not in my work clothes and the less than subtle lines of drool some leak out when gawking from across the room while waiting for their date or girlfriend or wife to return to the table, but dating flop after flop after flop kind of makes a woman question the shit.
And only having two designated little black dresses – both designer names – for dates probably doesn’t help either.
Tate treats himself to a not so subtle glance down the front of my lacey dress before continuing. “I like your energy, Harper.”
The temptation to roll my eyes is stopped by the way his hold them hostage.
