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Are these two valid reasons to end this shit already, or am I looking for an excuse – an easy excuse – to ditch this date that I swore to Nat I would see all the way through unless I absolutely couldn’t?
Or maybe I’m not so subtly looking for a way to swap him out for the green-eyed gorgeous treat physically waiting on me?
“And for you,” the champagne flute filled with sparkling reddish liquid and berries is placed near my water glass, “a Kir Royale.” Our gazes lock, and I swear to God the entire restaurant disappears around us. “Shot of crème de cassis, topped with champagne, and garnished with blackberries inside the glass but a cherry on the edge,” his chin tips towards the lingering fruit, “to ensure you feel like it’s the best part of your night on every sip.”
I can’t stop myself from beaming.
“Taste it,” he insists, Irish accent too strong to be ignored. “I want to see that you’re fulfilled.”
God of cocktails, please give me strength to survive this meal if he doesn’t tuck all that shit back in ASAP.
Ignoring the thrumming between my thighs thankfully gets easier due to Lars lifting his glass and leaning it towards mine. “To a great evening.”
Rather than concur, I smile, raise my drink, and clink. Afterwards, I allow myself to revel in the sip as I had been instructed and moaning at the dark berry flavors aggressively conquering my pallet is a mindless action that I’m not sure I could stop even if I was conscious about it.
“Satisfied?” Tate asks in such a nature that every syllable of the word touches me in ways and places it has no business doing.
He’s like twelve.
I literally could’ve babysat for him!
Feeling any sort of way about a man younger than me is one thing, but one that is so much younger than me, well…that’s…gotta be some sort of penalty, right? Some sort of buzzer should be going? Some sort of off-sides call?!
Oh!
Maybe Lars and I will discuss hockey next.
Most men calm down and relax a bit when you bring sports up, which is what I need.
To calm the f train down and focus on not failing another date.
Tate’s attention remains devoted to me in spite of the fact I’ve yet to answer.
Mmm…I wonder if that dedication would roll over into the sack.
No.
That’s the opposite of the thought process I should be having.
“Very,” I finally reply, thoughtlessly panting the one word.
His unapologetically cocky grin returns prior to his announcing, “I will be putting in an order of crabcakes,” he politely states to my date, “they’re Harper’s favorite. She even prefers a bit of extra drizzle on the plate for additional dipping.”
Wow.
He…really remembers me.
It’s oddly sweet.
Especially since Daniel could barely remember I preferred wine that sparkled to ones that didn’t.
“Is there anything else you would like me to put in at this time, sir?”
“I don’t eat crabcakes,” Lars nonchalantly informs.
“That’s fine,” my mouth moves once more without my consent. “I wasn’t intending to share them.”
He laughs as though I’m joking, and the unbecoming sound has me quickly snatching up my drink to wash away the taste.
