About That Fling(4)

It came out sounding more like a question than a statement, and Adam realized he urgently wanted her to be Kendall so he could have an excuse to sit down with her. She smiled, and he felt his fingers clench around the handle of his briefcase.

“Nope, I’m not Kendall, but you’re welcome to hang out if you can’t find a table.” She tucked a little neon pink card into a pocket on the back of her phone case before pushing the phone aside. “Looks like my girlfriend had something come up at the last minute, so I’m just going to finish my Sangiovese and head home. Feel free to park it here if you want to nab my table when I leave.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.” Adam eased into the seat across from her and immediately felt his crotch vibrate. It took him a moment to realize he had a text message. Pulling the phone out of his pocket, he glanced down.

“This must be the night for people to get stood up,” he said. “My appointment just canceled on me. Too bad, I was looking forward to that Sangiovese.”

“You’re a Sangio fan?”

He shrugged and shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Actually, no. I’m not even entirely sure what Sangiovese is. But I’ve been on a quest to try new things, so that seemed like a good one to add to my list.”

Jenna lifted her glass and signaled a passing waiter. “This particular Sangiovese is a good one to start with. A little spicy, hints of strawberry and cherry, medium tannins. Very drinkable.”

“In that case, why don’t you order another?” He nodded at her glass, which had only a tablespoon of liquid left in the bottom. Hardly enough to keep her here as long as he hoped to talk to her. “My treat. I’ve been flying all day and I’m wiped. Besides, we might as well drown our sorrows since we’ve both been stood up for the evening.”

She seemed to hesitate a moment, one finger sliding over the pocket on her phone case. Then she smiled. “Sure, why not?”

He ordered for both of them—two glasses of the Sangiovese she suggested and a cheese plate that sounded like the right thing to go with wine, though what the hell did he know? He’d always been more of a cocktail fan, or at least he was when he’d been married. They’d even bought a liquor cabinet and took turns trying out new recipes. That was back before things had gone to hell, before she’d decided she was done with him and moved on with—

“So you’re not from around here?”

Her voice jolted him off the dark path he’d been headed down. He met her eyes, trying not to let his gaze stray to her breasts. “What makes you think I’m not a Portlander?”

“You said you’d just flown into town.”

“Actually, I said I’d been flying all day. Maybe I’m a pilot. Or a pterodactyl.”

“Excellent point. It’s also possible you live here and you’re returning home after traveling someplace else, but that’s clearly not the case.”

Adam tugged at the knot in his tie to loosen it. “Oh? What gives me away as non-native to Portland?”

She grinned and took a sip of wine. “Your tie is too straight, your shirt is too pressed, and you don’t appear to have any piercings or tattoos.”

“Maybe you’re not looking in the right places.”

He couldn’t believe how blatantly suggestive his words came out, and he almost apologized. But instead of tossing her drink at him, she grinned wider.

“Maybe I’m not,” she said, her eyes darting to the bare ring finger on his left hand. “I’ll have to do a more thorough examination.”

He let his own gaze stray to her ring finger, visibly bare on the stem of her wineglass. He brought his eyes back up to meet hers, and she gave him a knowing smile.

“Now that we’ve gotten the obligatory ring check out of the way and reassured ourselves we’re not sharing drinks with a serial philanderer, tell me about yourself,” she said.

Adam leaned back in his chair, not bothering to hide his intrigue. “How do you know I’m not a serial philanderer?”

“No tan line where your ring would be, but there’s a tan line on your wrist. I saw it when you checked your watch a second ago.”

The waitress returned and set down two glasses of wine, along with a platter heaped with at least a dozen mounds of fancy crackers, crumbly cheeses, and cured meats. He plucked an olive and a handful of crackers, arranging them neatly on the small plate in front of him.

“You’re very observant,” he said.

“I try.”

“Are you a private detective? Clinical psychologist? International terrorist specializing in wine-bar espionage?”