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I give a small shake of my head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s my treat. Think of it as another Christmas gift.”
“But you already bought me God knows how many hundreds of dollars’ worth of clothes,” she says, her brow still furrowed. “And I haven’t had a chance to get you anything and I’m… I’m not…”
“You’re not what?” I prompt when she glances down at her menu with a sigh.
She pulls in another breath, seeming to brace herself before she shifts her focus back to my face. “I’m not going to spend the night. I can’t. After dinner, I’m going to get my suitcase and find a place to sleep in the terminal. It’s just a boundary I need to draw for my own well-being and—”
“And that’s fine,” I cut in, my tone harder than it was before. “I have money coming out of my ass. The money doesn’t matter to me.”
“But I—”
“And even if it did, I wouldn’t use it to manipulate people,” I push on. “I’m not wining and dining you to get into your pants, Rose. I’m wining and dining you because I like you and enjoy your company.” I pause a moment, lifting my menu before I add in a softer voice, “Getting into your pants will be something I accomplish with charm, patience, and kissing you the way I know you’re dying to be kissed.”
She swallows, heat and fear creeping into her gaze in equal measure. “I can’t kiss you again, Bear. Not ever.” She swallows. “No matter how much I want to.”
“Why not?” I ask, hating what I’m hearing but glad we’re finally talking honestly about the potential between us.
“I’m focused on my career,” she says. “That’s it. That’s the way it has to be. Multi-tasking isn’t possible. That’s been proven by science, and I’m a big believer in science, even though I barely passed chemistry sophomore year.”
“Same,” I say. “Chemistry is hard.”
But it’s not really. Not the kind of chemistry simmering between us, anyway. This should be easy.
“Spending time with someone you enjoy doesn’t have to be, though,” I add. “I don’t want to distract you from your goals, Dipsy. I want to help you achieve them.”
Her forehead furrows. “I know, but I would be distracted. I’m easily distracted. Like with my name. I never told you why everyone calls me Dipsy. I completely spaced on my end of the bargain.”
I shrug. “There was an alligator in the Chex Mix. Extenuating circumstances.”
“Still, I owe you and I haven’t paid up. But I will, as soon as we order,” she says, forcing a smile as the server arrives with the salad and lobster.
We choose our main dishes—rib eyes for both of us—and I order a bottle of a red blend I know isn’t too tannin-heavy. Once the server leaves, I reach for a lobster claw, dipping it lightly in the melted butter on the appetizer plate as I say, “Okay, shoot. Tell the tale of Rose Dipsy Dobbs.”
She dishes salad onto her plate. “It’s not a tale. I told you, it’s boring. I had a blood sugar condition as a kid and fainted a lot. One of the kids at preschool asked my mom if I was sick and she said ‘no, Rose is just a little bit dipsy.’ The nickname stuck.” She shrugs and stabs her lettuce with her fork. “See? Boring.”
“Not boring,” I say. “Did you like the name change?”
She frowns, chewing and swallowing before she says, “Not really. I didn’t dislike it, but it wasn’t as pretty as Rose. But once it stuck, it didn’t feel like I could change it without being a bother.”
“Then be a bother,” I say, claiming the rest of the salad. “You have the right to be a bother. Especially when it comes to your own name.”
She takes a drink of water, setting it down thoughtfully. “Well, yes, I guess, but now everyone in the tristate area knows me as Dipsy the fun-loving girl reporter.”
“Rose,” I murmur.
Her lips part, and heat creeps back into her gaze. “Yes, Bear?”
“What would you like me to call you?”
Her fork paused in mid-air over her salad, she pulls in a breath and exhales, “Rose, please.”
“Done. It can be that easy.”
“You’re crazy.”
“You’re scared,” I counter. “But you don’t have to be. What’s the worst that could happen? We start dating, you realize you were right about falling madly in love with me distracting you from your work, and we take a break.” I collect another lobster claw. “Or…it’s fine. Maybe it’s better than fine. Maybe it’s amazing, and we’re happy and you’re successful and we have a house full of kick-ass cats and life is better than we ever imagined it could be.”
She nibbles at her bottom lip, dividing her attention between the lobster claw she’s detaching from its pre-cracked shell and my face. She looks like she’s seriously considering something—hopefully how good it would feel to relax her “work first and only” policy and let me in—but our main course arrives.
