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Tom wore his dark navy suit with a crisp white shirt but no tie. He held her hand in the cab and did the gentlemanly door-opening, ushering and chair-settling. Whenever she looked at him, he was watching her. Not once did he pretend he wasn’t. It was a visceral thrill.
Chemistry, huh. Let’s see what reaction we can get.
She started by accidentally flirting with the waiter. He was cute, and he started it. He’d failed the waiter-school lesson that said you won’t get a tip if you appear to be too into a guy’s date. It was sixty seconds of giggling over the menu’s use of the word bolao, meaning tomato balls, but it made Tom bark his order of the most expensive beer on the list. The most amusing part was when he realized he’d done that and looked sheepish.
She let all that fly past as if she hadn’t noticed, but that flash of annoyance looked a lot like jealousy and that wasn’t a reaction she expected.
She faced him across the white linen cloth and a table light that looked like a tiny flying saucer made from gelatin come to land between them. That queasy, fluttery, nervous feeling was back. She swallowed it down. “How long has it been since you took a woman out to a nice restaurant?”
His brows went down and his lips compressed. He usually had a good poker face, didn’t telegraph his feelings, but that was a tell, only she wasn’t sure of what.
“My gram was the last woman I took to a starred restaurant.”
Flutter, queasy, flutter. “Sweet, but doesn’t count.”
“I can’t remember.”
She hoped her inner squirm wasn’t all over her face while she was trying to psych him out. “That’s the kind of answer someone gives when the real answer is never.”
“It’s not never. It’s not recent. What kind of man do you think I am?”
“That question was rhetorical?”
It had to be because he’d palmed his face. He mumbled through his fingers, “Yes, because I’m terrified of what you might say.”
Psych-out achieved. “But I like you.” In a too much, too serious way. “I’d say only good things.”
“Would you?” He stopped playacting and hit her with a look that had to make colleagues, reporters and clients alike think twice about their answer. This was not-to-be-trifled-with Tom, and she loved that hard-ass boss in him.
And that she got to trifle with it.
It was a challenge question with only one response. “What kind of woman do you think I am?”
“The kind who runs the show and does it well.”
“That was a rhetorical question.” But oh, oh, the answer was very fine.
So were their meals. She had the flora tasting menu and he had the fauna. Her meal started with jasmine roe trout and his with guinea hen. There’d be nine courses in all.
She waved a tiny fork at him. “What’s your ideal date?”
“You want to sit here in that dress that performs magic on your body and talk about my other dates?”
Self-preservation. Yes. “Would you rather talk about world events?”
“I would not rather talk about world events.” He took a sip of his beer, held the glass and focused on it as though it had all the answers. “My ideal date is something like this with a woman whose company I liked. But it wouldn’t matter what we did if we enjoyed being with each other.”
She’d made him uncomfortable and that hadn’t been the plan. Stir him up, tease him, but not make him regret being here with her. “You might go bowling.”
The glass went back to the table and his eyes went to hers. “We might.” He took the lifeline.
“You might hike.”
He smiled. “I would definitely want to do that, if she was up for it.”
Firmer ground now. “What else?”
“We’d eat food I cook, and go out to eat, because food is important.”
