Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 99356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
A gush of warmth toward him flowed through me, and I couldn’t even bring myself to jerk my hand out of his. I remembered how he said his little sister had anxiety. I could see how his presence had been reassuring for her now. I just hated that I felt so damn comforted by his big hand holding mine.
I expected him to tease me about not letting go of his hand, but Dean was uncharacteristically quiet while we drove.
I didn’t let go of his hand until we parked outside the restaurant and got out of the car. I kept watching him, waiting for some gloating comment about the hand-holding, but it didn’t come. He just took my arm again and led me into the restaurant, telling the hostess we had a reservation and following as we were led to a private, candle-lit table in the back.
I took a seat across from him and we thanked the waitress when she poured water for us.
“Wow,” he said, lifting the menu. “Fancy.”
I looked and realized I couldn’t read a damn word of it. Everything was in Italian. I swallowed hard, not wanting to admit I was way out of my depth here, for some reason. I guess I imagined a guy like Dean must eat at places like this all the time. He was probably used to bringing women with him who came from wealthy families, too. I bet they could pick out anything on this menu, order without butchering the pronunciation, and not make fools of themselves. It probably shouldn’t have mattered to me, but I couldn’t help feeling like a fool.
The familiar buzz of electric anxiety was starting to build inside me. My breath was coming faster and my vision was going black at the edges. I was sitting in a calm, quiet restaurant and my stupid fight or flight instinct was kicking in like I was being chased by a sabertooth tiger.
Dean glanced up from his menu. I was ready for him to ask me if I was okay again, but he just leaned over to point at an item on top. “I think this would be a good starter. I don’t know about you, but I feel like it’s hard to go wrong with bread. Right?”
I smiled slightly, feeling just a touch better. “Um, yeah. Definitely. Bread is good.”
“If you like sweet, fruity wine, this one is my favorite. I could order us a bottle.”
“Okay,” I said.
“For the main course, I was thinking maybe pasta. There’s a creamy sauce one here, but if you don’t like mushrooms it may be a bit heavy on the earthiness. Or if you’re in the mood for something safe, this one is basically going to just be a tomato sauce with meatballs. The truffle shaved on top is optional, if you’re into that.”
I took a shaky breath. What the hell was this? It was like he’d read my mind, saw what was stressing me out, and magically waved his hands to fix it. Maybe I was just seeing his experience dealing with a little sister who had anxiety. He was so effortless about it, though. So comforting.
For some stupid reason, I felt emotion tickling at the corners of my eyes. “Thank you,” I said softly.
Dean smiled kindly, and then the waitress came back to take our orders. He ordered for us, but made sure to make sure he understood what I wanted before passing the information along to the waitress with flawless pronunciation.
Once she left, I gave him a hard look. “What is this? Are you trying a new strategy to seduce me, or something?”
“Why? Is it working?” There was that boyish smile of his, again. Except I saw it in a different light this time. Before, I’d seen it as the cocky smile of a man who had the world handed to him on a plate. Now, I thought maybe it was more the smile of a man who liked to make people happy. He was someone who understood people, and he enjoyed taking care of them. But, maybe that was giving him too much credit. Maybe he was just the man who knew how to push people’s buttons, and he was trying to push the ones that would get me in his bed tonight. Our bed, I thought, considering we were still sharing a hotel room.
“Maybe a little,” I admitted.
His eyes twinkled, but he said nothing.
The waitress set down a bottle of wine and spent a little while doing the fancy routine of uncorking it, asking us to smell the cork–apparently that is a thing–and then pouring our glasses. While she was doing this, another man set down a plate of fresh, steaming bread. He poured oil on a black slab of a plate, minced fresh garlic on a cutting board he set up on a tray by our table, and added it to the oil. He finished by crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle, then sprinkled them in the oil and gave a little bow, wordlessly leaving us with our wine and bread.