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“I probably won’t after I decide to read them either,” I respond matter-of-factly.
“Come with me. Let’s get out of here.”
“No.” I shake my head to add emphasis and plant my feet.
He starts to turn me, never letting go of me. His pewter suit hugs him in all of the right places. The crisp, freshly pressed white shirt makes his hair look even darker. I want to tangle my fingers through it and tug. Instead, I play with the soft, expensive fabric of the wool blend, massaging his forearms as I examine the quality. “Unless you want to stand here in the middle of the restaurant and feel me up. No complaints from me.”
“What?” I look at my fingers and quickly pull them away.
“I’m completely content with that option, although I imagine some old folks would have a heart attack at your expense. If you’re willing to take that risk, by all means continue.”
I gasp loudly before I can form anything coherent.
“You know that your reactions to me only make me want to scandalize you more. You are conditioning me. Positive reinforcement at its best.”
My nose scrunches up in disgust, my frustration heightened at the exchange. Everything is happening so fast and my head is spinning. “Graham, I am working.”
His eyes focus on my wrist as realization hits. A low growl vibrates from his throat, his eyes fierce with an indescribable emotion. What did he expect? Surely after meeting me that first day, my attire alone would indicate that I am an average girl just trying to get by. It should be obvious that the only reason I am here is because someone else is paying for it.
“I figured as much,” he says, toying with my silver bracelet, “yet part of me still had high hopes for you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I glare into his eyes, ready to spit venom. “The point of the job is to go out on dates. It is pretty hypocritical for you to look down on me for this line of work when you keep women like me in business by purchasing us as dates.” He should know this! Besides, the cost of the dinner would probably be equivalent to my gas money budget for the next three months—not that I’m good at mental math or anything. Did he expect me to just saunter into an expensive French restaurant by myself, with college loans and all? Plus, eating alone usually would entail pretending to shuffle through a “long” list of nonexistent text messages or giving the illusion that I need to catch up on imaginary schoolwork. Solo dining only works at cafes, during the day, with reading material in hand. Not at French bistros—with ancient vintages and immaculate sateen napkins that I am afraid to dirty.
“Give me a chance to conclude my business dinner with some associates. Five minutes max. Then I’ll take you home. Sit at the bar and order whatever you like. It’s on me. Just give them my name.” The wink that follows furthers my frustration. When did the wink come back into style as an acceptable form of flirting?
I stare in disbelief at the directive. Who is this man? And do I really want to hang around to find out? “I don’t want to go home.” Just saying the words make me feel vulnerable and wary of the reaction that I wait to observe. This man does not like to be told no. Well, this girl does not like to be told what to do, regardless of how good the intentions are.
“Well, then we can go on a tour of the amenities here. Or have dessert. Whatever you like.” If I had my doubts before, I do not now. Graham wants to pursue me. Reasons, yet to be determined. The possibility of grabbing sweets is a low blow. He’s playing hardball—dangling weaknesses in front of me.
I focus on Graham’s steel gaze, his blue eyes turning to a brooding storm. It is the same blue as the main color scheme of the restaurant. I am enthralled by both.
The electrifying fingers remain in place—one on my waist, the other on my elbow. “What would I have to do for you to tell me why you are so amused right now?” he asks.
I am not sure what comes over me, but I want to create the shock factor—if only this once. “I was wondering how much a room here would be for the night.”
“Easily affordable and worth every penny that I own,” he grinds out between his teeth, obviously trying to maintain a certain level of control.
“Your family would make you pay?”
His eyes twitch. “I would choose to pay,” he states quietly.
“I’m here with Mark.”
“It’s like you want me to get arrested.” The sneer shakes me to the core. His fingers tighten predatorily on the curve of my back. For a split second, I question whether I did something wrong, besides dampening the mood with the utterance of another man’s name. The energy in the room quickly turns foul. The influx of testosterone surges behind my back as I feel the presence of my date hot on my heels.
“Hoffman.” Mark’s eyes take in my stance. “Angie, I came to see if you were okay. You’ve been gone awhile.” He stares at Graham and then shifts his attention between the hand on my elbow and the one on my lower back. His eyes darken possessively, making me cringe. Please don’t let them hit each other. “I just ordered you another drink.”
“Whatever he ordered, do not drink it.”
“Let’s go, Angie,” Mark persuades.
“I mean it, Angie. Do not drink it.”
I flinch at the showdown of the staring/pissing/sizing-up contest. Both men appear equally ready to pull at my arms to see who can win me first. It is a game to them, and I am the prize—whether it is just for bragging rights or hope of slipping into my panties. But seriously, plain-Jane-me? I haven’t been on a real date in a long time. Russell was a user. The closest thing we had to a real date was him paying for a home movie, during which he groped me on the couch. Why all of the male attention now? I look down at my dress, if only to ensure that all the naughty parts are fully covered.
Mark puffs his chest. “She’s here with me.”
And here it goes…
