He briefly looks at me. “Well?”
I shoot him a steely look. “You have no proof of that. Maybe I just remembered how much I liked holding your hand . . . with my hand, pervert. Okay? Maybe I miss it.”
He squeezes my thigh. “I think I’m going to keep it here. I like it here.”
I slump back against the seat like a child on the brink of a tantrum. “Fine. I like it there too, so . . . whatever. Do what you want. I don’t care.”
I drown out his laugh by cranking up the volume on the stereo again.
By the time we park and walk to the restaurant, everything south of my waist seems to be back in check. I’m no longer ready or willing to beg for some sort of physical contact. And fuck! I should be the one driving him crazy with lust. Teasing him. Making him so fucking hard he can’t see straight.
Well, the night is young, and I plan on regaining some of my feminine power and working him up. If he thinks he’s getting through this meal without getting an erection, he’s sorely mistaken.
Giovanni’s is a dimly lit restaurant in the heart of the city. I was right, I’ve never been here, and I think that’s because it is a lot fancier than any place I’m used to dining at. Mason checks us in under our reservation while I admire a piece of artwork on the wall. My nephew can manipulate a paint brush and create something similar. Three colors congregating in one messy swirl. I’m betting this thing costs more than the rent I couldn’t afford in my old apartment.
We’re seated at a table draped with a white, crisp linen by a large window. A small vase containing a beautiful arrangement of flowers sits in the center, which Mason quickly slides to the side so that we can see each other better.
I admire the mural painted on the ceiling. The chandelier lighting. The attire of the wait staff.
“This might be the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to. Are you trying to get laid?”
Mason glances up from his menu. I immediately lose the smirk when he doesn’t mirror my playfulness.
Shit.
A deep frown settles between his brows. He looks put off. “No. I thought it looked nice. I wanted to take you here the moment I saw it.” He pauses, leaning back in his chair. “I’m curious, Brooke. Do you always go out to eat with the expectation of sex afterwards? Do you never just sit and talk with someone? Learn about them?”
My face heats. I swear the temperature in the room spikes ten degrees in this moment.
Hello, mouth? Let me introduce you to my foot. Go ahead and eat it. You’ll be doing me a solid favor.
I grab my menu and flip it open. My gaze lowers. “No. Of course not. I was just making a joke. I’ve never been anywhere this nice before. I think the atmosphere is making me nervous or something.”
Or, its you. The way you look at me. The things you say. That could be it.
He taps his menu against mine.
Our eyes meet, and the moment he smiles, maybe a bit apologetically, I forget all about my secret agenda to tease him and get him hard underneath this table. The way Mason is looking at me . . . it’s sweet, and candid, and maybe I’ve never had a man take me to dinner without the expectation of sex, but I don’t want to admit that, and I’m also bizarrely happy Mason isn’t doing this for that same reason. I no longer want to take away from the conversation or anything else this dinner will entail.
And I also don’t want to think about how strangely okay I am with that revelation.
He jerks his chin, motioning for me to pick out my dish.
I resume looking at the menu, really focusing in on the words in front of me for the first time since I opened it. Everything is in Italian. Even the drinks.
What the . . .
My gaze travels the length of the menu, right, then back to the left. My eyes narrow. I lean closer. I have no idea what I’m reading. Well, not reading. Reading implies understanding, and that’s definitely not what’s happening here. It’s more of a guessing game, really. Maybe when the waiter arrives I can just point to the cheapest entrée and hope for the best?
Mason must sense my confusion. I’m sure it’s obvious, I’m close to flipping this thing upside down and taking a go at it that way. Or pulling up Google translations on my iPhone. But before I have a chance to do any of that, my menu is stripped out of my hands.
“Hey,” I protest.
Mason smiles, almost wickedly, folding the menu in front of him. “What do you like? Pasta? Seafood? Do you want a chicken dish?”
I shoot him a puzzled look. “Um . . . yeah, sure, I like pasta and seafood. I like pretty much anything except for eggplant.”
The waiter arrives at our table. I sit back in my chair and watch, stunned, as Mason, who up until this moment was already killing me with his accent, fires off our orders in perfect Italian.
Holy. Fuck.
There’s no stutter, no uncertain pause as he trips over a word or two. It’s beautifully fluent, hot as Hell, and I’m melting in my seat at this surprising man across from me.