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29
sierra
Ouch!
I snapped my mouth away from the sizzling hot chocolate in my cup after it burned the first layer of tissue off my tongue and shrank down in the winter coat that Steven had bought me the other day. Steven sipped his with ease beside me as we walked through Market Square.
“Do you come here a lot during the winter?” I asked, rubbing my cold fingers on the cup.
“Since I moved my business into that building right over there”—he pointed to one of the tall buildings near Market Square—“I’ve always wanted to come down and check it out in the winter, but I haven’t had much of a chance.”
“Why not?” I asked, inching closer to steal his heat.
“Because I”—he paused—“have never had anyone who would go with me.”
My eyes widened, and I bit back my small-talk response of, Oh, really? Instead, I opted for the embarrassing and clichéd, “Well, I’m happy to go with you anytime you’d like! I haven’t been down here much either.”
Dressed in a dark gray topcoat, he glanced over at me with those amused eyes and smiled softly. That look did something to me, my stomach feeling fluttery and light. I brought the cup up to my lips again and forced myself to take a sip.
A band played Christmas music in one of the corners, the main singer dressed as Santa. I gazed at all the expensive gifts, ornaments, and jewelry that vendors were selling and continued through the crowd, Steven’s fingers slipping around mine.
Another wave of excitement rushed through my body, and I squeezed his hand. Is this really happening in front of everyone right now? What does it mean? Is this a date, like I thought it was?
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“A bit.”
“I have a reservation for us at seven thirty at Alta.”
“Alta?” I asked, gazing up at him. “Where’s that?”
Once we made it out of the crowd and to the main street, where a car had been waiting for us, he pointed across the river to a tall mountain that overlooked the city. My gaze drifted from the Duquesne Incline to the restaurants with large windows.
After a fifteen-minute drive, our driver pulled to the curb in front of Alta. Butterflies fluttered through my stomach at the thought of Steven even making this reservation for us, never mind it being at a fancy restaurant.
I had sneakily texted Heather in the car, asking her if she had been there before, and she had started freaking out and telling me that this really was a date with my BDSM-loving billionaire Sex Ed professor and that I needed to ask him to go with me to her family’s holiday party.
Which I had been building myself up for.
But then Steven had completely knocked me off-balance, wanting to bring me to dinner.
Steven took my hand and helped me out of the car, his hand falling to my lower back as he guided me toward the entrance, where someone took my coat. I watched the attendant disappear into the back room in surprise.
Besides at Radiant, I hadn’t been anywhere where they took my coat during dinner.
“This way, Mr. Patton,” the hostess said.
When we stepped into the main dining area, I pressed my lips together so my jaw wouldn’t drop open at the prettiest sight of Pittsburgh that I had ever seen through the large floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall windows.
We sat near the window at a table with about a billion different forks. I smoothed out a napkin on my lap, nervous that I’d do something wrong in front of all these ritzy, rich people here. Because I didn’t know the first thing about forks!
“It doesn’t matter which one you use,” he said, watching me stare at the silverware.
“But they’re all different.”
He chuckled. “They’re forks. They all do the same thing.”
My lips curled into a smile, and I relaxed against the back of my chair, sipping on some champagne that they had brought over to us. Steven smiled back, his cheeks tinting red just a smidgen, and sipped his champagne.
