The Wedding Rescue, Book One(5)

Dylan sat beside me, stretching his legs out in front of him. He leaned back into the couch, one arm across the back, fingertips almost grazing my shoulder. My shy side, usually in charge, told me to lean forward, out of range. I didn’t listen. I wanted to feel those fingertips on my skin again.

“So, tell me the rest,” he said.

“The rest?”

“You said you had problems. Plural. The thieving ex is a single problem. What are the rest?”

“You really can’t want to hear this,” I said.

“I do. Tell me.”

“Okay,” I said, again unable to resist him. “But you’ll be bored.”

“I guarantee I won’t.”

Cheryl entered with a tray and set it on the table in front of us. I reached for my coffee, cradling the short, white mug in my hands, soaking in the warmth.

“The rest isn’t as big a deal. My old boss, who I loved, took another position and her replacement started this week. He’s -” I paused, looking for the right word. “ – miserable, repellent, and lazy, to be honest with you.”

“Has he been giving you trouble?” Dylan’s eyes narrowed the same way they had in the bar, showing him for the predator I knew he was beneath the charm.

“Not much. Yet. But I have a bad feeling he will. He stands too close. And he’s too touchy.” I shuddered at the thought of those pudgy sausage fingers gripping my shoulder the way they had this morning.

“Name?” Dylan asked, pulling out his phone.

“What?”

“Give me his name. First and last. The ex as well.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to check into them. The first step to dealing with a problem is information.”

“You don’t have to do anything about this,” I said, desperately. What was going on? This was a little weird. “These are my problems. I don’t expect you to get involved. It’s nice enough you got me coffee and some food. You really don’t need to look into Frank or Steven.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. Give me the names.” His green eyes bored into me and my mouth opened involuntarily. I gave him the names. As he typed into his phone, the door opened and a uniformed waiter pushed a cart into the room. Dylan said, “On the table, please.”

Without looking at either of us, the waiter said, “Yes, sir.” and began unloading the plates. As he whisked the covers off, delicious scents sent my mouth watering. One plate held what looked like steak tartare with tiny diced onions and capers. It was one of my favorites. Another held a selection of olives and cheese with colorful pieces of bruschetta. The last had toasted brioche rounds with crème fraiche and caviar. I hadn’t had caviar in years, but the last time I had, I’d loved it. My stomach growled, and I flushed. It always embarrassed me, feeling overweight and eating in front of people. I’d grown up with my sisters questioning every bite I put in my mouth. The idea of eating in front of Dylan, easily the most handsome man I’d ever met, paralyzed me.

Somehow, he knew exactly what to do. Lifting a square of toast heaped with shaved beef tartare, he held it in front of my lips.

“Open,” he ordered. I did. The flavor hit me first. The rich, meaty taste of the beef, the crisp bite of the capers and the pungency of the onion danced over my tongue. Then his touch settled into my consciousness. I chewed and his fingers rested on the sensitive skin beneath my chin. He trailed one finger down my neck, stopping to slide under the wide strap of my dress, stroking my shoulder. I’m not sure how I swallowed without choking. It was the smallest of touches, no more than a fingertip, and I was shivering, my body on sensory overload. Between my legs, the heat transmuted into a familiar moisture. He was getting me wet just by caressing over my shoulder. Unreal.

I didn’t protest when he slipped one of the caviar rounds into my mouth, this time sliding his touch along my lower lip as he pulled his hand back. My brain was firing on all the wrong cylinders. I was ready to run, or ready to lay back and spread my legs. I made the mistake of meeting his eyes and all thought shut off. A piece of bruschetta later, Dylan handed me my coffee and sat back.

“The coffee isn’t the right compliment for the flavors,” he said. “But I thought you needed it more than wine.”

I swallowed and managed to speak, “Thank you. The food is wonderful.”

“I enjoy eating. So do my guests, so I make sure everything is top quality,” he said, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Now, any other problems?”

“It’s nothing worth getting into. Really.” I was outright lying. My last unspoken problem felt like the biggest. It was also really embarrassing. At least it would be, if I had to admit it to Dylan. It would be over in three days. I could get through three days.