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This is not going the way I thought it would.
The woman at table seven looks me up and down, then says, “No.”
In a span of a few seconds, my mind bounces from one reason for the rejection to the next. Is she saying no because she knows who I am and has a low opinion of me based on a sensational story she saw on tabloid TV? Does she not know who I am and therefore think I’m just a random creep? If it’s the latter, do I introduce myself and risk embarrassing her?
Most likely, the simplest explanation is probably the correct one: I’m not her type. I’ve indeed put on a bit of weight since I starting sitting down a lot more to write my cookbooks. I’m not as young or as fit as I used to be.
Still, I can’t explain it, but I can’t seem to get my ass moving in the other direction.
“No?” I repeat back to her. What are you doing, St. Germaine? She doesn’t want you to join her.
The gorgeous brunette curls her lip and stirs her drink.
“In fact, you probably shouldn’t even be talking to me,” she says.
I should have brought water for this conversation because my throat is dry as Death Valley.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you? Why?”
The woman leans forward and stage-whispers, “Are you okay? Because you’re repeating everything back to me like you don’t understand the words.”
Then I see it. A hint of something playful in her eye tells me she’s fucking with me. Maybe. Or she wants to eat me alive.
I think I’d be fine with either of those possibilities.
Was it just her physical attributes getting my attention? What can I say? I’m a visual guy. I spotted her the second she walked into Urban Fruit like a homing beacon, and I couldn’t stop my legs from finding their way over to her table. I’ll admit, I’m a man of simple pleasures. Her hip sway in that dress caught my eye first. A black slip of a thing that shimmered as it moved with her body. The kind of dress that allows a lot of filthy things to happen without having to disrobe. Much. The things my big mitts would do with those thighs. My god. Also, I appreciate a tall woman who’s not worried about appearing too tall in heels. The way those extra five-or-so inches moved her long legs and soft bottom was too alluring to look away.
“I’m not trying to pick you up just because you’re alone if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say. “But it’s a shame you’re eating alone. I thought you should have company.”
A lock of hair falls from behind her ear when she chortles at me. “Good to know you’re not trying to pick me up because you would need to work on your material.”
For some reason, the sound of the Hindenburg crash footage loops through my brain. Oh, the humanity. I should cut and run immediately before Peggy, my bartender, catches on to what’s happening and never lets me live down this public rejection.
Being a persistent dumbass with no formal culinary education got me where I am today. And, as persistent dumbasses will do, I press onward. “How about you let me buy you a drink? Just a friendly drink.” I gesture to the next empty table. “I’ll even sit over here, away from you.”
She eyes the table I’m pointing at. “Are you serious? Every table in this place is reserved. I know that because I had to book mine weeks in advance.”
I smirk, perhaps a little too cockily. “I have a feeling the hostess wouldn’t mind if I found an extra table in the storeroom.”
The woman whose name I desperately want to know now looks at me like I’m a science specimen. I’m a moth drawn to a flame, and she’s pinned me to her canvas of curiosities. “There’s a myriad of reasons why you cannot sit there and talk to me or buy me a drink. None of which I can discuss with you at the moment. Have a good night.”
I give it one last shot before running scared, extending my hand. “Nevertheless, it was a pleasure speaking with you, Ms...”
“Pocket. Polly Pocket.”
“Ms. Pocket, I’m Milo St. Germaine, and if you need anything at all tonight, I’m at your service.”
Finally, she smiles. Actually, her shoulders jerk slightly, and she’s biting down on her lip because she’s trying so hard not to laugh.
“Sure thing, Milo St. Germaine.”
Chapter Three
Cecily
Watching those long tree trunks walk away almost makes me feel bad for being mean to him.
Milo’s gently frayed Levi’s fit just right, hugging two round, squeezable cheeks. Something in me doesn’t want him to walk away. Which is odd. I don’t go for older guys. Three of my sisters have a thing for older men. The fourth sister? Too soon to tell, because the guy she’s with at the moment is her age, but also not The One. I can tell. Something must be in the water around here because many people in my study group have dated a professor or two.
