AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Best table you have, honey.” He places his palm on my back, warming my bare skin thanks to the backless white dress I’m wearing. That wide, rough hand slides around until he’s gripping my waist possessively. “One by a window would be preferable.”
Our hostess taps her iPad and then nods, locking eyes with Barrett a moment later. I watch as her entire face softens with recognition. Admiration. What gives? Shouldn’t women hate him for what he said to Loretta Santiago on that field? Instead they melt over great biceps and seaworthy blue eyes. Pathetic.
“Barrett Fox. Oh my gosh.” She flits a nervous glance around as if she’s aware she’s acting unprofessionally before dropping her voice to a whisper. “Can you sign something for me if I bring it by discreetly?”
He leans in and murmurs, “Honey, I’ll sign anything you like.”
She giggles into her palm before cutting me a look of apology.
I smile patiently. Yes. I’m still here.
“Oh, her?” Barrett tucks me closer. “She’s used to my fans.”
The hostess blushes as she collects two menus, and then herself. She straightens as a tall, older gentleman in a smart black tux rounds the corner. “Pierre, please take this couple to table eleven.”
“Certainly. This way.” If Pierre, who doesn’t have a tiny mustache like his name presumes, is impressed by my date he doesn’t show it. He’s the consummate professional. A host with the most. He seats us, hands us our menus, and fills our water glasses without fanfare.
“Swanky.” Barrett is checking out the room: several crystal chandeliers hovering overhead, ironed white tablecloths, low candlelight in crystal votive cups at the center of the table.
“Yes, well, readers want the fantasy.” I unroll my silverware and spread the napkin on my lap. He watches me before doing the same, like he was unsure if that was his cue. I can’t resist a smile, so I hide my face behind the wine menu.
I order a bottle of wine in French. The sommelier’s eyes light with approval, but he only has a dash more personality than Pierre.
“Yikes. Tough crowd,” Barrett says when the sommelier leaves.
“You don’t have to share the Chianti with me, Fox,” I tell him. “Beer is acceptable. You’re supposed to be you, not conform.”
“You think I can’t drink wine?”
“I think you don’t want wine,” I correct.
“I want wine.”
“Fine.”
“I like that dress on you, Kitty Cat,” he says as I study the menu. “I always thought I liked low-cut necks and supershort skirts, yet here you are blowing that idea out of the water.”
The white dress I’m wearing has no sleeves—a good look since I have a tan and nice shoulders. And with the back out, it’s sexy without being overtly pinup girl. My hair is fastened at my nape, a few strands artfully pulled out of the twist to frame my face.
“You cleaned up nicely yourself, Fox.” He’s in his typical black pants/white shirt combo, but he’s wearing a tie. A sleek, charcoal gray tie that looks expensive. I know because North is an impeccable dresser. His tie collection rivals my shoe collection. As restaurant rules specify, Barrett is wearing a suit jacket over those broad shoulders. It’s charcoal in color and perfectly fitted. He didn’t buy off the rack. This one was tailored.
I imagine what his closet looks like only to crash into a visual of him naked and choosing clothes from it. I blink to wipe away the image.
Pheromones. Yeesh.
“Do you have a stylist?” I tell myself it’s my job to get to know my date, but the truth is I’ve been curious about that since I met him.
“Had.” He takes a big drink of water.
He’s leaning back in his chair, one leg under the table, the other leg out in the aisle like the tiny seating area can’t contain him. We’re next to a window as he requested. Downtown Columbus at night is awe-inspiring. Tall, shadowy buildings checkered with golden lights are aglow against a navy blue sky.
“I learned how to dress after a few years of being in the spotlight,” he explains. “Here’s less pressure than Miami. The club scene.” He purses his lips and blows out a breath. “You have to be on top of it to fit in there.”
Our wine arrives. I wave off the option of a taste test. The sommelier pours both glasses and whisks away, leaving Barrett and I alone with our Chianti.
“North and I enjoy this vintage often. I think you’ll like it.” I take a drink of the exquisite liquid, forgiving myself for the white lie. North and I haven’t enjoyed a bottle of this particular vintage in a long while. Probably the last time we slept together.
“Why the frown, Kitty Cat? Does it taste bad?” Barrett takes a drink big enough to fill his cheeks and then makes a show of squinting one eye and swishing it like mouthwash, first on one side of his mouth and then on the other.
