“You come here often?” I asked, when the hostess had walked away, assuring us that our server, Greg, would be right with us.
He shrugged. “Occasionally.” He wasn’t much of a sharer. I wanted to know more about the man who came to me in my dreams and messed up my head for all other men.
“Do you live in Las Vegas? Or near here?” I asked, needing more.
“No” was all he said.
I felt like growling in frustration. Normal people would follow that up with where they did live. This was like pulling teeth. “So where do you live?” I asked, this time more pointedly, since that was what this was going to require.
“Different places. Depending on my job at the time.”
Was he kidding me? Was this a test to get me to pitch a damn fit? Sighing in defeat, I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest. “Fine. You don’t want to tell me about yourself. I’ll just sit here quietly and leave you alone.”
His large, strong hand was on my thigh instantly, holding it in a firm, almost painful grip.
I held my breath, unsure what button I had pushed but waiting to see if it was a sexual one or a truly angry one, where he would beat the hell out of me and then toss me into a ditch on the side of the road. With this man, I couldn’t be sure. Hell, I didn’t even know where he lived.
“Don’t sass me with that gorgeous fucking mouth.” His voice was laced with a warning and temptation all at once.
I should have come back at him with more sass than he could handle, but I wasn’t sure if it was safe to do that. And in an odd way, I wanted to please him. So I nodded and replied. “Yes, sir.”
Before I could be disgusted with myself over my submissive response, he began caressing the thigh he’d probably bruised. “That’s better,” he whispered, then leaned in to claim my mouth in a kiss. Right there in front of the whole damn place. Well, we were kind of hidden, but Greg the server could walk up at any time to witness our make-out session.
He broke the kiss just as quickly as he had initiated it and leaned back, his hand still on my thigh as if he owned it and wanted to remind me of it.
A tall, lanky guy with bright orange hair and lots of freckles appeared. It must be Greg. He seemed to be flushed red, and I wondered if he had attempted to approach us seconds before when our lips had been passionately locked. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, so I was guessing that was the case. I hoped so, because otherwise, it would be a shame if his skin was always so red. He already had all those freckles and that horrible orange hair. A good stylist could fix that and give him more of an auburn color that would at least make the freckles less offensive.
“Good evening. My name is Greg, and I’ll be your server tonight. What can I get you to drink?” He sounded nervous.
“A bottle of 1990 Chave Hermitage,” Gannon ordered, as if sure that this place would have such an unknown French wine in the States. It also happened to be my favorite red wine.
Greg went about filling our water glasses while I stared at Gannon, trying to decide if this was a joke. “Yes, sir,” Greg responded, and he walked away.
“Did you just order a bottle of Hermitage in a restaurant in a casino?” I asked, trying to decide if I might have misheard him.
Gannon looked down at me and smirked. “Yes.” Of course, that was all he was going to say.
“That’s a French red wine that happens to be my favorite but you can’t find it easily in the States and definitely not at a restaurant like this. You ordered a vintage Hermitage.”
He looked annoyed, and his hand tightened on my thigh.
When he did this, I knew I’d stepped over the line he kept invisibly drawn before us. Something that should annoy me but didn’t. I liked the idea of the line taunting me to cross it.
“I don’t need a wine lesson. I’m aware of what I ordered. Damn high-maintenance woman,” he finished with an exasperated mutter.
“Did you just call me high-maintenance?” I asked, straightening my posture and shooting him a glare that was definitely crossing his line.
He turned back to me after taking a sip of his water and almost laughed. “Yes, sweetheart, I did. You are the most high-maintenance woman I’ve ever met.”
That didn’t sound good at all. But he was probably correct in that assumption. I was terribly high-maintenance. Still, it was rude for him to say that. “That’s rude,” I told him.
“As are you, my dear.”
I had opened my mouth to say something brilliantly sassy when the server appeared with the wine. I was a little more than excited that they had the Hermitage. I found it hard to believe that Gannon had just randomly chosen my favorite wine. It wasn’t an easy guess. “How did you know this was my favorite?” I asked.