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“You too,” I politely retort at the same time he settles into his seat.
Not as nice as it would be to have Tate across from me, but I’m not going to admit that out loud.
My eyes cut a glance to the smirking man at my side indicating I don’t have to.
Is he a mind reader?
Is there any skill he doesn’t have?
“My name is Tate, and I’ll be your server for the evening,” he professionally announces to my date. “Would you like to order a drink or spend a few moments with the wine menu?”
Lars unbuttons his jacket and casually inquires, “Got anything special?”
“She’s already at the table, sir.” There’s no stopping my jaw from hitting the floor just as there’s no pause for a rejoinder in between statements. “We have a vintage port that’s locally sourced and an imported cabernet sauvignon that will be unavailable by the end of the night.”
My date doesn’t even bother making eye contact, something that doesn’t settle well with me. “Popular?”
“Quite,” Tate respectfully replies.
“I guess I’ll try that,” he sighs on an opening of his menu.
“Very well then, sir.” Green eyes I can’t get enough of fall back into my brown. “And what about for you, Harper? The usual? Our house Moscato?” Rather than wait for an actual answer, he smoothly suggests, “Or perhaps you’re in the mood for something different? Perhaps a fuzzy navel?” His eyebrow quirks, yet his head tips to the side. “Bit of whip on the top? Afterall, nothing’s better than peaches and cream.”
The small swipe of his lips that he takes indicates he absolutely means the double-entendre, and what’s fucking worse is the fact I want him to mean it.
And lick it.
And stick it.
And dear goodness gracious I need a cold shower.
Oh, and to not start humming that damn song.
“Um, I’ll um…” Verbally flailing again simply inspires him to impishly smirk. Wanting – no needing – to get my bearings and show Nick Jr. that I can play the same games – although I really can’t because that’s just one skill I never bothered developing in the romance department – I lean back into my seat, pull my hair to one side of my face, and coo a challenge, “Impress me.”
“With pleasure, beautiful,” he purrs prior to strolling away.
I do my best not to stare at his ass that’s framed in his black dress pants, but my lady parts conduct a mutiny. They overthrow my gaze so that it’s glued to cheeks I wanna dig my nails into and force me to clamp down on my bottom lip again in hopes that by the end of the night he’ll do it for me instead. Unfortunately, just as my head begins to drift dreamily to one side, Tate looks back, catching me in the ogling act like the creepy cougar he’s turning me into.
How?!?!
What was that, like five minutes of flirting?
I should totally be able to go more rounds before I start singing every version of “Age Ain’t Nothin’ But a Number”.
“You look a lot like your photo,” Lars unexpectedly states, redirecting my attention to where it should be.
On someone it should be.
Someone who is probably gonna click the same age demographic choice on a survey.
“Which is such a relief,” he continues, eyes on mine. “There’s nothing worse than when the stills don’t match the property, am I right?”
The choice of analogy prompts me into nodding as I recall what it is he does for a living.
Real estate.
I offer him a cordial nod of agreement.
