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“I’m not getting married, big brother, I’m going to dinner,” Vivian teased as she put the roses in a vase.
This had the opposite effect of the one she was hoping for. Mitch’s frown deepened. “Getting married? Nobody mentioned getting married. Why are you talking about getting married?”
“I’ll explain,” Annie said to Vivian. “You go get dressed.”
*
At exactly seveno’clock, Aiden knocked on the front door of the house where Vivian lived. He was nervous. Excited. Happy. The last time he’d felt like this… Exasperated, he shook his head. He’d never felt like this before, and he wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.
The door flew open. A scowling Mitch filled the doorway. “O’Sullivan.”
“Hi, Mitch.” Aiden nodded, ignoring the other man’s frown. “Good to see you again. I’ve come to pick up Vivian?”
“You mess with her…”
“I’m taking her to dinner.”
“To get more information out of her.”
“To give her dinner.”
Fortunately, at that point, Vivian and Annie also appeared in the doorway. Mitch moved out of the way, clearly not happy with his sister leaving.
Vivian stood on her toes and kissed her brother’s cheek. “Relax, Mitch. See you later.”
Aiden nodded in Annie’s direction, but he couldn’t stop looking at Vivian. Most of her long, blond curls fell down her back, but a few strands had dropped forward over her shoulder. Her naked shoulder. The blue top she was wearing left her shoulders bare. His mouth watered. Velvet. Satin. He could already taste it.
She slipped into a coat, covering her shoulders, and he could breathe again.
He took her hand, electricity crackled. They both smiled. “You look gorgeous.”
“Thank you.”
As they walked down the steps toward his car, Mitch’s eyes were drilling holes on his back.
“I’m watching you!” Mitch called out.
Aiden lifted a hand, not bothering to answer. For the next few hours, at least, he wouldn’t have to deal with the angry brother.
Chapter Eight
By the timeVivian sat down, she was shaking—with excitement and something else she wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge. Every eye in the small restaurant was on them.
Aiden had kept her hand in his during the drive to the restaurant. He’d asked about her day. She blabbered on and on, he merely smiled and nodded, probably already sorry for inviting someone to dinner who talked so much. She did that when she was nervous. And Aiden O’Sullivan was making her nervous.
He’d jumped out and was there to open her door before she could move. His hand had moved protectively to her back, and he’d kept it there all the way to the table.
She was an independent, twenty-first-century woman. Why was she swooning about the small gesture?
The restaurant wasn’t big but seemed to be popular, there were no empty tables. She’d been here once or twice with Mitch and Annie. On the red-and-white tablecloths, red candles were burning in empty Chianti bottles. Tuscan landscapes had been painted on the walls, and on the ceiling, a trellis with vines and big, red grapes. Warm and welcoming, if a tad shabby. The food was good, though; they’d discovered to their amazement.
“What would you like to drink?” Aiden asked, checking the wine list.
“A cabernet sauvignon or a merlot. We discovered a shiraz from the Napa Valley when we were still living in Sacramento, but you won’t find it here, I’m afraid.”
Surprised, he looked at her. “I’ve been to Napa Valley. They do have excellent wines. I also like a shiraz.”
“We made several trips over the years with our parents—we all love wine.”
