Just One Night(3)

stifled a sigh. Not because the attention wasn’t flattering. It was.

It was also been-there-done-that.

How many dates had she been on just like this one, with the hard-to-get

reservations, and the mouse-sized servings, followed by let’s freaking split

dessert? Dozens.

Then again, this wasn’t just any date.

This was the fifth date with the same guy.

And every woman knew what that meant. Or at least, every woman who wrote

about the dating process for a living knew what it meant.

Hell, Riley wasn’t entirely sure that she or one of her friends hadn’t invented the

rule somewhere along the way.

That was one of the unexpected perks—or hazards, depending how you looked

at it—of writing for the top-selling women’s magazine in the country: You got to

write the rules.

And as one of Stiletto’s primary relationship columnists, Riley had done a fair

amount of writing about the fifth date.

Or rather … the after-party of the fifth date.

So yeah. Riley knew what tonight meant, and from the way Steven’s bland gaze

kept dropping to her cle**age, so did he.

Again, Riley waited for that tug of anticipation low in her belly.

Again, nothing.

She gave a mental shrug and took another sip of wine. It had been worth a shot.

The night was young. Maybe Mr. Good Enough was just biding his time to light

her fire.

Although if that were the case, the man really should have ordered two desserts,

because nothing lit Riley’s fire like food, and this uppity place hadn’t even offered

a decent bread basket, just a weird little seeded-roll thing the size of a tangerine.

A French restaurant with no French bread was a grand faux pas.

Or was it faux pas grand?

Whatever.

Julie had written an article a couple of years back about how gorging oneself

early on in the dating ritual was a Bad Idea. Something about bloating and

gluttony and other prehistoric ladies-should-be-ladies nonsense. Julie Greene

was a bit of a legend when it came to dating.

But legend or not, Riley was pretty sure her best friend had gotten it wrong on

this one. There was something utterly warped about changing one’s eating habits

for a man. Any man.

Maybe that’s why Julie’s engaged and you’re not.

Stifling a sigh, Riley dug into the crème brûlée the server placed on the table

between them. She took small bites. Not because she wanted to be dainty, but

because it was freaking tiny, and she wanted to make it last.

Luckily Steven either didn’t have much of a sweet tooth or figured that hers was

bigger than his, because he politely set his own spoon aside after two bites.

Good boy. Her hope for them just hitched up a notch. Sam would have been

knocking her spoon out of the way to beat her to the brittle top, which everyone

knew was the whole point of crème brûlée. A gentleman, Sam Compton was not.

“So, Riley,” Steven said, watching as she cleaned out the last sugary bits from

every cranny of the mini custard pan. “I’ve got to tell you, I’ve done my fair share

of dating, but I’ve enjoyed these last couple of weeks with you more than I’ve

enjoyed a woman in a long, long time.”

What garbage.

“Me too,” she said instead. Grace had warned her about this earlier. Something-

something-something, don’t kick his balls and just be nice.

It all sounded fishy to Riley, but Grace Brighton knew her shit.

If Julie was the dating guru of Stiletto, Grace was the magazine’s Dalai Lama of

relationships. There was a kind gentleness to Grace that even a wretched

breakup with a cheating bastard hadn’t diminished.

Not that Grace had remained single for long. In fact, she and Jake were probably

doing some sort of nauseating just-for-two activity right this very second and

actually enjoying it.

Barf.

Riley didn’t need any of that. Didn’t want it. She just wanted to stop feeling like …

A fraud.

Steven was still talking. “I’m not ready for this date to end. How about you?”

Here it was. Tell him you don’t want it to end either. Ask if he wants to go back to

your place for a nightcap.

She curved up the corners of her mouth and lowered her eyelids in a way that

usually had men panting a little bit. “You want to come back to my place?”

Riley drew the line at using the word nightcap. This wasn’t 1954.

“I’d like that, Riley. Very much.”

Okay then. Even she knew what the husky voice and steamy look meant. His

eyes skimmed her body, and his appreciative smile said he liked what he saw.

She resisted the urge to smirk. He hadn’t even seen the good stuff yet. One didn’t

write about sex for a living and not learn a thing or two about sexy lingerie.