Words like nightcap may be passé, but the way Riley saw it, garter belts were
always in style.
She just wished the big moment wasn’t quite so … imminent.
It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest they get another dessert … or hell,
maybe just a repeat of the entire meal so that she’d actually feel full. But their
server was already discreetly sliding the bill onto their table.
To her surprise, Steven let her pay for half. She’d offered on previous dates, but
he’d always kindly waved away her credit card with a comment about his mother
uninviting him at Christmas if she found out that he’d let a woman pay.
She was pleased to see he’d relaxed his stance. Riley was all for gentlemanly
gestures on the first date or two, but there was a mighty fine line between chivalry
and chauvinism.
However, just when she was about to bump him up from Good Enough to just
plain Good, he got, well … prissy.
“Oh man, it’s raining,” Steven said, doing a fussy little dance to avoid a puddle
outside the restaurant.
Riley lifted an eye as she pulled her Kate Spade umbrella out of her purse and
watched him pointlessly swipe at the water on his shoes.
“These are Italian,” he whined, not noticing her less-than-enamored expression.
Riley understood the reverence for Italian-made goods.
But only as it pertained to food. Pasta, in particular.
But men’s footwear? Not so much. Normally she tried to avoid double standards,
but she had a lot less tolerance for shoe obsession in potential bedmates than
she did in girlfriends.
Carefully hiding her disdain, she went to the curb to watch for an available cab.
Despite the common misperception that Manhattan had an unlimited supply of
taxis, on rainy Friday nights in the Village this couldn’t be further from the truth.
Riley’s fingers turned numb right before her hand lost feeling from being held in
the air for a good five minutes.
A quick glance revealed that Prince Charming was huddled beneath the
restaurant awning with four other women.
Seriously?
Okay, so maybe a little machismo wouldn’t be so bad.
In the back of her head, Riley heard Emma Sinclair discreetly clear her throat.
Don’t do that. Do not go searching for reasons why he’s all wrong. Nobody’s
perfect.
Riley snorted.
Like Emma was one to talk. Emma was every bit as single as Riley.
Then again, Emma seemed quite happy with her status. Emma Sinclair, in all her
unruffled southern belle glory, wasn’t in the midst of a rather epic dry spell like
Riley.
And maybe nobody was perfect. But sometimes it felt like there was a guy that
was perfect for Riley. Only it wasn’t the guy currently hiding from the elements. It
wasn’t her date.
Finally a taxi deposited a group of girls in front of the restaurant, and Riley
swooped in for the kill, smiling apologetically at the two men who’d made a move
for the same cab.
Sorry, boys. My delicate little flower needs to get his Italian shoes out of the rain.
Steven hurried over and scooted her into the cab before sliding in and closing the
door behind him.
“West Fourth and Perry, please,” Riley told the cabdriver. It was at times like
these that Riley was glad she’d snatched up the West Village apartment Julie had
left behind when she’d moved in with Mitchell. Riley still considered herself a
Brooklyn girl, born and raised, but there were times when a Manhattan address
was priceless.
Rainy booty-call nights were definitely one of those times. At least she was pretty
sure. One would have to have actually had a booty call to be positive.
Although with each passing second, Riley’s determination to give Steven Moore
a front-row seat to her garter belt was fading.
Particularly since he was still fussing with the shoes.
“They’re ruined,” he muttered.
All right. Enough of this.
“So, on a scale of getting laid off, to, say … getting a terminal illness, where would
you say the ruination of Italian leather falls?” she asked sweetly.
Steven stared at her in surprise, and then, to her relief, he gave a sheepish laugh.
“I’m being a baby, huh?”
Oh no. Much worse than any baby I’ve ever known.
“A little,” she agreed. “But I get it. I’m pretty attached to some of my shoes too.”
“I’ll tell ya what. If you agree to forget about my prissy moment there, I’ll make it
up to you later?”
Uh-oh.
Steven Moore was putting on the moves, and they weren’t good. He’d unsubtly
moved closer to her in the cab, and his hand was on the back of her neck in what
could have been a seductive massage if his hands weren’t freezing and his grip