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I cup his ears and tell her, “If it bothers them or if they can’t sleep, call me.”
“Will do.”
I dart upstairs, shower, shave, and get dressed. Saltwater Kitchen is one of the more exclusive restaurants in town, so I need to bring my A-game. Besides, the chef is my brother Brooks’ best friend. I can’t go in looking like a bum. A crisp white shirt and blue suit do the trick.
Zipping out the door after some quick goodbyes, I realize I’m excited about this. I don’t know if we’ll talk about the kiss but I’m going to just with it.
When I pull up to her apartment building, I’m halfway through our conversation in my head, coming up with answers to the questions I imagine she has and retorts for any smart ass thing she might say. It’s not unlike preparing to go to litigation. But when she walks out of the lobby in her little white dress, every prepared answer and retort is nothing more than half a memory.
I get out of the car to open her door. “Hey there, good to—
She gives me a peck on the cheek before getting into my passenger seat. “Hey, Rowan.”
God, she smells incredible. The heat of her body next to me…and that damned dress clings to her curves for dear life. Just sheer enough at the top to make out the outline of her lacy bra…Jesus. Shake it off.
I close the door and pray for heavy rain that could make her dress scandalous. Alas, there is nothing in the forecast. But a storm brewed inside of me. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I ask, “Saltwater Kitchen, okay?”
“Have you been planning this? They’re booked up for months.”
I shrug. “Quinn is cooking there now, so it was easy to get a decent table.”
“God, I haven’t seen Quinn in years. How is he?”
“Brooks says he’s doing great, but I haven’t spoken to him in a while.”
There it is. The silence. Only this time, it’s not the comfortable silence of old friends. This silence has suffocating heft.
“Saltwater—
“Autumn—
“What?”
I pause, unsure of how to begin. “You first.”
“I was just going to say, Saltwater Kitchen is fancier than I was expecting. What were you going to say?”
Don’t tell her she’s pretty. Don’t tell her she looks good. Or sexy. Or like she belongs in your bed. This is Autumn Sherwood. Abort all naked thoughts. Do not compliment her. Neutral phrases only.
“I like your dress.”
“Thanks. I like your suit.”
Good. Polite, but not a come-on. “How have you been?”
“Busy. Like usual. You?”
“Same.”
And the heavy silence rolls in again. Thankfully, though, we pull up to the valet at Saltwater Kitchen before it gets too awkward. After getting settled with them, I give the hostess my name. “Right this way, Mr. Cargill.” She seats us next to a window overlooking the ocean and near the bar. Perfect.
The restaurant is on the small side compared to the club, but everything, from the dark brown wood to the ivory tablecloths, is the best of the best. If it’s something that should shine, it gleams. No detail is too small for Quinn to notice, and it shows in everything the staff does. Our server gets our orders—one Syrah, one dry Riesling—and once again, the silence. But background noises break this one up. Palpable relief hits when the drinks arrive.
When Autumn takes a sip of her wine, it’s impossible to ignore the way her lips move on the glass. Soft, pouty, perfect. Watching her throat as she swallows…bad thoughts, stop it. But I can’t. How had I never noticed how sensual she is? How beautiful? Was I blind?
She smiles. “Rowan, I just wanted to say, if you want to pretend the other night did not happen, I get it.”
Disappointment sinks into my gut. Our kiss was a revelation and now this? Politely, I ask, “Oh?”
