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Lucas hadn’t said a word since she came downstairs wearing a black sweater dress, tights, and high-heeled boots that went past her knee.
On the drive to the restaurant—nothing. As he walked around the front bumper to open her door, still nothing, but he did take her hand to head inside.
When he first looked up and saw her on the stairs, the forest in his eyes grew denser. His pupils grew blacker. At first, she didn’t pick up on it, otherwise distracted by his plaid sport coat, the sweater over his dress shirt, and his dark pants.
A little preppy.
A little sexy.
Then she noticed him, noticed what was written all over his face. Had they not already confirmed they would be attending this little dinner, she would have stripped, pushed him onto the sofa, and climbed on top of him.
He set his hand on the small of her back to usher her ahead of him through the restaurant doors and then took her hand again, absentmindedly stroking her palm with his fingers.
The second they handed off their coats, someone called his name. A man wearing a sweater and dark slacks headed their way, his arms flailing wildly and his head like he’d doused his hair in pure silver.
Lucas groaned. “I fucking hate this man.”
“Who is he?” she asked.
“Dr. John Nelson. Our department head.”
“What do you hate about him?”
“That his lungs continue to function.”
John Nelson continued his pursuit and slammed into Lucas, wrapping him up in a hug. John was shorter, but he was roughly fifty pounds heavier than Lucas. For a moment, it looked as if he would pick Lucas up off the floor.
“Morris told me you were coming,” John said, releasing him. “But you usually don’t show up to these events.”
“I’m here,” Lucas deadpanned.
Raina stifled a laugh.
“Come, come.” John looked down, and his eyes met hers. “Sweetheart, please bring another bottle of Pinot for our table, please? Thank you.”
John started off.
Lucas didn’t move. “What did you just say?”
John stopped and turned on his heels. “Everything okay, Saraci?”
“What did you just ask my wife?”
Raina squeezed his hand. “Saraci, it’s fine.”
“This is mywife,” Lucas said, his words sharper than a guillotine. “Why would mywifebring a bottle of Pinot for the table?”
He wanted to fight her battles, and she loved that he wanted to fight her battles, but they’d left a pot full of delicious-looking tortellini untouched back at home.
She washungry.
John’s face flushed crimson. “I’m so sorry! I apologize. She just looks so young—”
“And she’s wearing a dress, not a server’s uniform.”
“Saraci, I didn’t mean—”
“Where’s the table?”
