As they shook hands, she couldn’t help the smile pulling her mouth wide. She didn’t need to pretend pleasure at meeting him or the simple delight at the emotion rippling across his expression lighting up his slate gray eyes.
“Ma’am, you have no idea.” The cultured gentleman with the air of small town charm continued to hold her hand.
“Well, perhaps you can enlighten me.” Her knees quivered and she was glad she’d chosen the pale champagne silk dress with its bodice cupping top and floor length skirt. James released her with a hint of reluctance and gestured toward the booth.
Barely managing to contain the wild butterflies rioting in her belly, she swept a smoothing hand across her hip before sitting. Fortunately pure silk didn’t wrinkle, so sitting wouldn’t leave a crinkled line across her ass.
Thank God I worked out this morning.
He waited a beat until she’d settled before sliding in across from her. She was at once irritated and delighted by their private booth. Delighted for the intimacy of the small table and the privacy it afforded and irritated that he was far away, around the curve of the booth to sit opposite her.
Slow down. We can afford to take a moment and absorb. He hasn’t said much and the gorgeous packaging is just window dressing. Her libido wasn’t remotely interested in the practical thoughts. She crossed one leg over the other, foot bumping his long legs under the table. A quiver of heat shivered in her belly.
“I have a confession to make.” Her first rule of dating shattered without a backward glance. She never started the conversation. After ten years of boring dates with men who only seemed to know how to talk about themselves, she’d learned the best barometer of her interest was to let her date take the lead. She could tell in five minutes or less whether dinner would make it to dessert or drinks afterward and within another ten whether they would be saying goodnight at the restaurant.
“Oh?” He shifted in the seat, the warmth of his leg stretching away from hers a fraction, allowing her crossed legs space but still close enough that she regretted insisting on a public meeting location.
“Yes.” Wrapping her fingers around the wine glass for courage, she tried to edge aside the schoolgirl jitters to meet his even look. “I’ve never decided to have sex with a man after one glance before.”
His mouth opened, a hint of shock flattening his dimples.
Way to play that subtle, Kincaid. Where did you learn your technique? The Bachelor?
“Thank you, I think. And I’ll see your confession with one of my own. I have decided that I would have sex with a woman at one glance before.”
Straightforward, blunt-edged honesty without arrogance. Where the hell has this guy been hiding?
“Oh?” She played with fire.
The waitress returned with a chilled bottle of wine in an ice bucket for her and a square, tumbled glass with ice and a splash of something clear and bubbly for him. “Would you care to hear the specials tonight?”
He glanced at Lauren, eyebrows raised in inquiry. Smile widening, she nodded a silent assent. “Please,” he told the waitress. She listed off several dishes, but Lauren barely heard her. He canted his head to the side, his expression attentive and patient throughout the full list.
“What would you like?” The smoky, sex-on-a-stick gray gaze slid toward her and she had to fight the urge to bite her lip.
“The parmesan encrusted salmon, fresh vegetables and lemon spears, white rice.” He was steak medium rare, and baked potato with butter and sour cream, and avocado bread.
He’s chocolate-drizzled cheesecake and white chocolate dipped strawberries, too. Stop drooling.
The waitress smiled and disappeared with their order. Dabbing her mouth with the napkin, Lauren took a drink of wine to buy her composure some time. “So, how did that go?”
“How did what go, ma’am?”
“The woman you wanted to have sex with at one glance.”
“I don’t know. We just met.” It could have been a line, but the simplicity and directness coupled in his tone melted her reservations.
“Well, you will definitely have to let me know how that turns out.” She raised her wine glass.
“You will be the first to know.” He clinked his tumbler to her glass and grinned.
“So what do you do, James with no last name?”
He set down his drink and frowned. “I apologize. James Westwood, ma’am.”
“It’s a pleasure, James Westwood, and please, call me Lauren, not ma’am.”
“Yes, ma—Lauren.”
They both laughed, the artificial tension melting like the ice in his glass.
“I’m a psychologist, boring on the surface, I suppose. But a field I enjoy.”