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“Claire seems to think that I’m a perfect candidate.”
“Of course she does,” Graham huffs.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand. He has some beef with Claire. “She’s my best friend, you know?”
“Miss Nettles thrives on drama and loves the thrill of dating strangers. Plus, she has more experience handling arrogant jerks.”
“I seem to be handling you just fine.” I give my best sultry smile and then I stick my tongue out. Like a first grader.
Graham belly laughs and holds up his drink. “Touché.”
I am grateful that the restaurant doesn’t have any mirrors for me to catch my appearance. I have to look hideous. He is bringing out my childish side and somehow enjoying it.
“Dominic thinks I’d be a good asset to the company.”
“Dominic needs to get his head on straight and start thinking about bu—”
“Shut it, you”—I stutter—“asshole.” That’s the best I’ve got. His brows shoot up, widening his stormy blue eyes. Oh, shit. Did I piss off the beast? Luckily for me, I don’t care.
“Oh, Angie,” he groans, reaching across the table to drag his long finger up and down my lips, pulling at the soft slightly damp skin. I am surprised that I do not pull away. “There are roughly 171,476 words in the dictionary, and those are the only ones you can come up with to string together?” He gathers some residual wine from the corner of my mouth, removing his hand from my skin to stare at it longingly. “Such dirty words coming from such a pretty mouth.”
It takes one endless minute for him to sweep his lips over his finger, making me swallow hard and plant my bottom firmly into the cushioned bench seat. One second he is insulting me, the next he is tantalizing me. I don’t get this man. He is a mystery, a puzzle that has a few missing pieces.
My eyes glare laser beams at him, only making his gaze turn seductive. I have no idea what necessarily he is criticizing about me. My intelligence? My mouth? Or maybe it is a compliment. He did say pretty mouth.
“Surely you can think of a few more suitable descriptors for how you really feel. Something a bit more creative, perhaps.”
The coolness of his words causes my shoulders to square. Oh, he thinks he’s some shit. There’s that word suitable again. Gosh, I am starting to hate that word.
The way he says it makes him appear older than he probably is. Yes, I most definitely want to take that grin off his face with a swift slap. Hand pain as a consequence would be welcomed and worth it.
“How about you conceal your clenched fist until dinner is over. For my sake, at least.” He coughs to disguise his chuckle.
“You seem to swear a lot,” I acknowledge.
“I’m allowed,” he shrugs.
I look at him in disbelief. “Because…”
“I'm a guy,” he confesses.
I start to fume inside over the double standard and then catch his cheeky grin and know instantly that he is baiting me.
I close my eyes for a few seconds to clear my mind. When I open them, I face Graham holding a bite-size cracker-looking thing in his fingers, beckoning me to open my mouth. A throb starts at my neck and works its pulse up the back of my skull, indicating a headache on the rise. This man couldn’t be more confusing even if he put forth more effort. One second he is angry, the next laughing. He changes to borderline rude, then back to being confrontational. And now he is feeding me?
His eyes soften to a beautiful sky blue. One hand rests under his chin, while the other waits for me to remove the food that is perched so elegantly on his fingers. Part of me wants to keep him waiting. I want to grind my feet into the ground and draw the line in the sand to show him what not to cross. But deep down I know that the line would prove to just be a challenge indicator—a green flag giving him a reminder of how far to push my buttons. He already knows how to push them. He is tempting me with food, hoping for an accidental graze of his fingers to pass over my skin in the process. Desire brewing, harvesting between words and simple skin-on-skin contact. I want more. So much more.
I submit to my hunger for nourishment and my growing need to please the man sitting across from me. I allow him to slide the colorful stack of greens, bread, and meat between my parted lips. My tongue slips out to catch the creamy sauce that wants to escape. I want his approval. The need originates deep within the pit of my core. As aggravating as Graham is, I am at his mercy. The man exudes power, and I would be stupid to continue with my taunting. I will switch gears as well. Maybe even play nice for a bit. I can do this.
“Very delicious, Mr. Hoffman. What is it?”
His eyes narrow at my formality. “Sautéed octopus—”
I cover my mouth to keep from spitting it out.
“And arugula on a pan-fried potato,” he continues.
Octopus?
