“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. We have a strict dress code in this restaurant.”
I swallow my laughter as Austin frowns, glancing down at himself. “Is there something wrong with my suit?”
The waiter’s mouth works silently before glancing at me, almost as though for help. “The problem is with your date.”
Austin plays the complete fool, frowning at him. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say. Is she dressed inappropriately?”
“She is wearing sneakers.” He says the word as though it did him personal harm.
“No sneakers?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He lifts his shoulder in a shrug and continues in a deadpan tone. “All right. You heard the man, Chloe. Take off your shoes.”
My ribs are going to crack from holding back laughter. I bend over and reach for my shoes as the waiter looks on, horrified.
“No, no, no. You misunderstood me, sir. We have a strict dress code. That means heels or flats, absolutely no sneakers.”
The feigned confusion wrinkling Austin’s face is priceless. “I don’t get it. You said no sneakers. She’s taking them off. What’s the problem?”
“I—are you serious?”
An edge creeps into Austin’s voice. “Yeah, I am.”
I turn my head into his arm to hide my face, laughing into his suit.
Suddenly, a man with slicked-back hair and a squeaky clean suit appears at my elbow. “Is there a problem, Mr. Sherwood?”
“I dunno. You better ask him.”
“Sir, I was just telling Mr. Sherwood about the dress code.”
The maître d smiles at Austin as though they’re old friends and waves off the waiter’s beet-red face. “It’s not a problem. Come, Mr. Sherwood. We have a table waiting for you.”
Austin lets out a small chuckle. I feel it through his side as he leads me past the infuriated waiter toward our table. The maître d pulls back my seat with a courteous smile, showing no sign that he gives a shit that I’m wearing gym clothes. Austin smooths his suit before sitting down, looking at ease.
“I never knew you were such a sadist. Seriously, that guy is going to make a voodoo doll of you.”
A smile staggers over his broad face. “Nah. That was just a little bit of harmless fun.”
“His head looked like it was going to explode.”
“I don’t really give a shit, to be honest. You’re classy as fuck in your gym clothes.”
I snort, looking around. Everyone’s dressed in formal attire. “Gym clothes don’t belong in this restaurant.”
“I agree. You should just take them off.”
He smirks as I lean across the table. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Babe, I can guaran-fucking-tee you half the men in the restaurant would love the sight of you naked.”
I roll my eyes at him. Yeah, and then they’d call the cops. “I can’t believe your star power got me inside here. I know you’re famous and all, but damn.”
“All I have to do is write one hundred and forty characters about how I was mistreated at a restaurant, and my fans would be lined up outside with egg cartons within five minutes. I wouldn’t do that, but I could. My tweets are like lightning bolts from the sky. With great power comes great responsibility.”
I laugh. “Did you just quote Spider-man at me?”
“It’s a badass quote.”
I settle into my chair, grabbing the menu. Scanning the list of mostly unintelligible food items, I zero in on the few I understand: locally sourced filet mignon and a flight of house-made cheeses. The steak arrives on a bed of chive mashed potatoes and a rich wine gravy. The filet practically falls apart when I look at it. Austin tops off our wine glasses and smiles at me as I cut off another slice of steak.
The alcohol seeps through my veins, into my muscles. I feel them loosening. Warmth pounds in my chest when he gives me a smile. I didn’t expect to like him so much—to actually be interested in what he has to say.
“What’s it like being famous?”
He takes a sip of wine and savors it as though mulling over my question. “Mostly it’s isolating.”
“What? You’re surrounded by people all the time.”
“People who worship me. People who want a piece of me. They think I’m a football god.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I’m not a god,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “I’m just talented. Being a football player isn’t my identity.”
No, it’s not.
He frowns. “Honestly, I would give anything just to have normal interactions with people again.” Then his gaze turns, fixing on me. “Like this.”
My blood simmers just beneath my skin as he looks at me as though I’m wearing nothing but a thong. I’ve never had a man really make me believe that I was beautiful.
“You like that okay, darlin’?”
A bit of a Southern drawl creeps into his voice. He must realize I’ve noticed, because he suddenly looks away, and I swear his cheeks have gone rosy-pink. Is he blushing? Yes, I do believe he is.
“Ah do believe you’re not from around here, sir.” I add a teasing grin to the words.
“I should have known better than to have another glass of wine.” Now that he’s paying attention, that drawl has slid back out of his voice—mostly.
“You always go Deep South when you drink?” I’m still trying to make it light, teasing. I don’t want to upset him, but I have to admit I’m curious.
“I try not to. I’ve worked really hard to ditch that accent.”
“Really? Where are you from?” It occurs to me I’ve never seen or heard him mention his background. Not even in the interviews I’ve read.
“I don’t like to say, but since you busted me…” He pauses. “Savannah, Georgia.”
“Oh, wow. I never would have guessed. Look, if it bothers you…”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine. It’s just that my family’s always been pretty private. They’re blue-collar people, you know? They wanted me to succeed, but I always promised them I’d make sure they wouldn’t have to deal with a lot of shit if I ever got really famous or anything.”
“And now you are.”
“I guess. So I keep it quiet. I mean, there are a lot of misconceptions about the South and the people there. They’re good people. My family’s good people.”
The sincerity in his tone makes his drawl come back, and he stops talking for a second. “We’re not stupid, we’re not uneducated, and we’re not white trash, you know?”
I reach across the table to touch the back of his hand. “I never thought you were.”
“You thought I was stupid because I was a football player. What else might you have thought if I sounded different?”
I’m quiet for a second; I don’t know how to respond to that. Honestly, I think his drawl is sexy when he lets it loose. But I already jumped to a ton of conclusions about him at the beginning, so how can I be sure I wouldn’t have been unfair about this, too?
“Fair enough.” It’s hard for me to say—hard for me to admit I let my prejudices get the better of me. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. It’s fine. You had a reason for that. But with my family… I can’t take somebody like you home to them and risk having you think they’re stupid, or, worse, making them feel dumb. It’s happened before. More than once.”
“I wouldn’t do that. Besides, why would you take me home to meet your family? We’re not even dating. I’m just your ‘Doc.’”
That elicits a snort of laughter. “Shit, we might as well be dating. I’ve spent more time with you than I have any other woman I’ve ever met. When you call or text, I pretty much drop everything to see what you want. And we’ve fucked each other nine ways to Sunday. How is that not dating?”
Now I feel my face going red. “Well…”
He starts talking again before I can summon any more, and at the same time he turns his hand over under mine, tangling our fingers. “Besides. I like you. A lot.”
Wow. I can’t believe he just said that. It’s not the L-word, but it’s an L-word, and it feels like he’s shifted our relationship into a higher gear.
Relationship? What the fuck, Chloe?
It’s a relationship. It’s a doctor-patient relationship.
You keep telling yourself that.
Sometimes I hate my brain. Then I hear my mouth talking, and again I wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
“I like you, too.”
“I know.” He grins like Han Solo. Leaning over the table, he kisses me. The warmth I’ve been beating down blazes across my cheeks the moment his lips touch mine. I kiss him back, throttling back my desire even though I want to leap over this table.
His lips move against mine. “Let’s go to my place.”
I take about a half second to consider, but I know there’s no fighting it.
Not tonight.
Unlike last time I was at Austin’s place, it’s not quiet outside his big house. Instead there’s a small gaggle of paparazzi that somehow managed to get past the gates out front.
“Get down if you don’t want them to see you,” Austin tells me as we approach the house.