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"Oh. Did I moan?" I ask, wide-eyed.
"Oh, yes, you did."He smirks.
"I'm sorry. It's a habit. When I eat something, and it pushes the right buttons, I moan or make other noises. It's stupid."
His smile expands. "Please, don't stop on my account. It's hot."
My movements still with his statement.
"Do you make sounds while you bake?" he asks, cocking his brow.
I nod. "Sometimes."
"Then, I want to see you bake sometime."
My lips part. "You want to see me bake a cake?"
"Yes."
"Oh, okay, but you must help me."
"No way. I can't bake." He shakes his head, holding his hand up.
"I'll teach you."
"You'll be my teacher? Now that's an idea I love."
"I bet you do, Mr. Brown," I say, sending him a playful wink.
"Nick?"
I turn my head, hearing a woman’s voice call out to him. A stunning woman with arctic blue eyes concentrated on Nick stands in front of our table. Her long, smooth copper-red hair falls over her golden skin, and her plump, glossy lips have an unnatural pout. As she tries to smile, her face lacks emotion—too much Botox.
Nick's expression is blank as he eyes her, and when he talks, his voice sounds flat. "Hello, Cindy."
"Hello, Nick. How are you doing?" She purrs, her cat-like eyes filled with lust.
"I'm fine."
"And who are you?" she asks while scanning me from top to bottom, making no attempt to hide her judgment.
"That's none of your business," he snaps at her.
Cindy blinks her long eyelashes at him. "Come on, Nicky," she cajoles.
Nick's volume increases. "Cut the crap and leave, Cindy."
Damon arrives with shock and apology written across his features. "Miss Calter, your table is on the other side of the restaurant."
"I know where my table is," she says, glaring at Damon. She glances back at Nick and shoots him a flirtatious smile. But when her eyes pierce mine, they're full of unfiltered hostility.
"Good to see you again, Nick. Let's catch up soon." With that, she walks away while swinging her hips more than necessary.
I catch how most men turn their heads when she walks past them. She’s definitely stunning. Focusing my attention back on Nick, who's chewing and cutting his chicken cacciatore with too much force, I tilt my head. He's sending out a “don't ask” vibe. But I ignore it.
"So, who was that?"
He stops eating and places his fork back on his plate. He massages his neck with one hand. "That was Cindy. My ex."
