My palms are sweating as I prepare to see Lincoln. We’ve talked and texted over the last few days. It’s been light and funny, and I’ve found myself laughing more, smiling more, even when I’m not with him. It’s the Landry effect. I keep reminding myself this is for fun, for the off-season, to keep it in perspective. He makes that seriously hard to do.
Giving myself a quick inspection, I’m confident in the dress I chose. A navy blue lacy overlay atop a silky fabric, the halter top shows off my toned arms, and the way the bottom hits mid-thigh will hopefully give him ideas.
Filling my lungs with precious air, I fight to stay calm. I almost cancelled this a hundred times since he left my office. I shouldn’t be here. It’s only going to lead to disappointment.
My breath catches in my throat as he comes into view.
Scratch that. It’s going to lead to an orgasm and he’s not even going to have to touch me.
He’s standing at the table, a tumbler of a clear liquid in his hand. Dressed in a pair of slim-fit khaki pants, a deep brown leather belt winds around his trim waist. A black dress shirt, rolled up to the elbows and the top couple of buttons undone, and I want to devour him. Throw him on the ground and just go for it.
I wonder vaguely if the rooms are soundproof as he walks to me. It’s an unhurried movement, like he knows that every second I have to anticipate his hug or kiss on the cheek gets me one second closer to combusting. The door shuts as the waiter leaves. I force a swallow, my mouth dry and hot. The light catches on the face of his watch and just amplifies how much he looks like he walked off a movie set.
Dear God.
The glass isn’t in his hand anymore when he reaches me, and I have no idea where it went. All I can see are his arms reaching for me, and I hold my breath as he makes contact.
His right hand lands on the small of my back as he leans in and kisses me on the cheek. When he pulls back, both spots immediately feel cold.
“You look gorgeous,” he says. Taking a step back to see me better, I feel his gaze scorch a path from my eyes, down my neck, across my breasts, all the way to my feet. “Just gorgeous, Dani.”
I don’t even correct him. I can’t. I can’t find my voice.
This is the first time seeing him in something other than sweatpants or shorts. I might’ve thought I was prepared, but I’m not. He’s divine. Classy. Sophisticated. Yet, a little rogue.
He takes my hand, his palm wide and warm, and leads me to the table. Pulling out my chair like a gentleman, he waits for me to sit. Once I’m settled, he disappears for a moment before returning with a bouquet of white roses.
“Lincoln! They’re beautiful,” I say, taking the flowers from him. As I lean in to take a deep breath, I notice one pale pink rose hidden in the midst of the cream ones. I look at him. He’s smiling. “I’ll bite. Why is there one pink one?”
“Because there’s always one that stands out from the bunch, just like you.”
My jaw drops as I swoon. “Wow,” I laugh. “That’s good.”
His chuckle joins mine as he sits across from me. “It is, right? I can’t take credit for it. I called my sister, Sienna, and she offered it up.” His brows pull together. “I hope that doesn’t take away from the gesture.”
“It doesn’t,” I say, smelling the flowers again. “Thank you.”
A waitress comes in and sits the vase on a wet bar and takes our order. Once we have wine, we’re alone again.
“I was afraid you weren’t going to show,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.
“You knew I’d come.”
“I know you’ll come if you want to.”
We exchange a smoldering look. He tugs at the collar of his shirt.
“You really do look gorgeous, Dani. I wish now more than ever I would’ve picked you up and gotten the privilege of walking in with you on my arm.”
“You picking me up would’ve been pushing it,” I laugh. “One step at a time.”
“One step at a time,” he repeats. “How was your day? Anything interesting happen? Did the asshole doctor stop by?”
“No,” I giggle. “What did he ever do to you?”
His head cocks to the side. “He thinks he has a chance with you.”
“So do you,” I point out with a tease in my tone.
“Damn right I do,” he says with zero playfulness in his. “I deserve it.”
“You deserve it?” I ask. “Really, Landry? Explain to me how you deserve a chance with me.”
He leans in, his features looking sharper, more regal in the light. “I want to know everything about you. The way you feel under my hands as I’m buried inside you, but I also want to know what makes you tick. How to make you laugh. The reasons you stay awake at night. What makes you smile.”
How do I respond to that? My heart tugs as I have to deal with his out-and-out declaration of what he wants. This I didn’t even try to prepare for. If he weren’t so damn genuine, it would help. If only he could give me a glimpse into the athlete inside him, it would help. If he weren’t so fucking sexy, that would really, really help.
“If your sister told you to say all these things, she should really start a romance column,” I laugh, trying to avoid having to address his words specifically.
“Nah,” he grins. “She just helped on the flowers. I’m winging the rest of it, relying on the ol’ Landry charm.”
“It’s working for you.” I take a sip of my wine and notice he winces as he picks up his glass. “How does your shoulder feel?”
He sighs. “Honestly, it’s a little sore. I haven’t thrown a ball since the last one I threw that tore it, so it’s a little stiff.”
“Oh!” I exclaim. “We didn’t have to play catch. Now I feel bad!”
His laugh rolls over the table. “I can honestly say I haven’t had that much fun playing ball in a while.”
“I’ll feel terrible if it messes up your therapy.”
“It won’t.” He takes a long drink. “Did Rocky miss me today?”
I can’t help but laugh. “He did. He drew you a picture, but I forgot it on my desk. It’s of a bird and a pig, I think. But your Van Gogh reference was a little misleading.”
He grins. “I was online last night really late because I never sleep these days.”
“Thinking of me?” I say, batting my lashes.
“Some,” he winks. “I found a painting class across town on Saturday afternoons. Have you thought about doing that?”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My hand stills around the stem of the wine glass and I smile at him. “What made you think of that?”
“You said you liked painting. Or you did when you were younger,” he blushes, looking down. “Maybe that was stupid.”
“That’s not stupid at all,” I whisper, my voice full of emotion. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but also like he’s embarrassed. I reach out and place my hand on top of his. The contact brings his gaze to mine.
“Thank you,” I tell him, hoping my earnestness says what I’m trying to say.
“For what?”
“For listening to me.”