She glanced up at me swiftly and then away, muttering, “Good to see you, Amy.”
I braced and looked at her father. “Mickey.”
“Amy,” he replied, drawing his brows together and again dipping his eyes before they came back to mine.
I had no opportunity to make a further fool of myself by soundlessly demanding to know what Mickey was saying because Bradley drew me away.
When we got to our table, he pulled my chair out and I sat in it. Then he sat. And thankfully we did this, ordered drinks and received them, all without incident.
We were perusing our menus when I looked across the three tables that separated us and saw Bradley’s back was to the Donovans, but Mickey’s side was to me and his head was turned my way, his complete attention on me.
And I could tell he was still angry.
Very angry.
That was when I had my first inkling I was in trouble.
He jerked his head in an aggressive manner that irked me.
Chancing a glance at Bradley, who was studying his menu, I looked back to Mickey, tipped my head to the side and flipped out a hand in my non-verbal, “what?”
He lifted a hand and jabbed a finger my way, tipping it slightly down, then up, then moving it to touch it to his chest.
Oh God.
Did I have something on my dress?
I looked down instantly and saw all was clear.
I lifted my head, snapped my brows together, and after another click glance at Bradley, who was still examining his menu, I looked back at Mickey and again flipped my hand out.
Her jerked his head in that aggressive way again but not toward me, in another direction.
I looked in that direction and saw there was a door to a hallway, above which it had a sign that read “Restrooms.”
I looked back to Mickey’s table to see he was no longer there. He was up and prowling infuriatedly toward that door, looking insanely hot doing this in his sports jacket.
God, he was killing me.
“What looks good to you?” Bradley asked.
Mickey Donovan, I did not answer.
“I need a moment,” I said and his head came up, his eyes to me. “Just need to freshen up a bit. Do you mind?” I asked.
“No, Amelia,” he replied, his face getting soft. “Take all the time you need.”
He was a nice man.
And I was an idiot.
Even knowing that, it didn’t stop me from grabbing my clutch and shooting out of my chair perhaps a wee bit too swiftly for someone who’d just insinuated she might need to use the restroom but mostly she wanted to fix her lipstick.
Then I stormed across the restaurant to the hall and down it.
It was a long hall and at the end of it, another hall led off at a T with a sign that said “Restrooms” with an arrow pointing right, “Staff Only” with an arrow pointing left.
I went right, passing the men’s (why was the men’s room always first? irritating) and then the ladies’, heading to the very end of the hall where Mickey was standing, arms crossed on his chest, scowling at me.
I shoved my clutch under my arm, again lifted both hands, stomping his way, but this time I asked a verbal, “What?”
I arrived at him.
Then I was not in the hall but shoved into an alcove off the side, which was quite possibly a place where they put racks to hang coats during winter months but right then was a dark space totally removed from everything.
“Mickey,” I whispered, half in shock, half something else entirely.
“Uh…no,” he said infuriatedly and bafflingly.
“No, what?” I asked, staring up at him, not believing I was in a dark area removed from a restaurant where my date was, his kids were, and I was pressed against a wall by an aggressive, inexplicably angry Mickey Donovan.
“No,” he repeated but he did this shocking me to my bones by lifting a finger and gliding it from the very start of the cleft of my cleavage over that cleft, dipping slightly into my cleavage.
Even though his touch made my nipples harden instantly, I lifted my hand and snatched his finger away, keeping hold of it.
“What are you doing?” I hissed under my breath.
“Pull your goddamned dress up,” he clipped under his.
“Are you crazy?” I kept hissing.
“That guy, fuckin’ Bradley, is that a joke?” he asked.
I didn’t know what that meant.
That didn’t stop me from snapping, “No.”
“Amy, even your ex, who’s a dick, is not as big of a douche as that douche at your table.”
Oh my God!
“Bradley is not a douche,” I retorted.
“Bradley is a douche and you do not give cleavage to a douche who you’re gonna let take you out for a couple of dinners and then dump his ass when you figure out he’s a douche.”
“For your information, I’m ending things with Bradley tonight, but not because he’s a douche, since he’s not. He’s nice. Because it just isn’t working for me.”
Mickey’s expression clouded over with sudden brotherly affront. “And you’re showin’ your tits to give him a look at what he’s not gonna get?”
I felt my face get pink and not in ways that Mickey normally made it pink.
Because I was furious.
“I have cleavage because my dress has cleavage, Mickey.”
“Pull up the dress, Amelia.”
I looked from side to side in mock panic before looking back to Mickey, letting his finger go, and grasping frantically at his lapels.
“Oh God!” I cried. “Did I enter a time machine and didn’t notice it? Are we back in 1818 where a man can drag a woman into an alcove at an eating establishment and demand she cover herself up?”
Mickey didn’t answer, and him not having a ready comeback surprised me enough to pay closer attention.
And what I saw was him looking down at me, his face thunderous, his jaw ticking, looking like he could easily murder someone, painfully and bloodily.
And the closest someone was me.
“Mickey,” I whispered, uncurling my fingers in order to smooth his jacket and then hopefully slide away and escape.
I didn’t get that far.
He muttered a terse, “Fuck it.”
And then he was kissing me.
Mickey Donovan was kissing me!
At first, I was suspended in utter disbelief.
Then his tongue touched my lips, I opened my mouth, it slid inside…
And I tasted Mickey.
He was the most beautiful taste to ever touch my tongue.
Because of that, I wanted more.
And I took it, in doing so receiving the best kiss I’d had in my life.
It was deep, wet, blazing.
So much of all that I forgot everything.
I forgot I was in a restaurant.
I forgot I was on a date.
I forgot my date was in said restaurant.
I forgot Mickey’s kids were there.
I forgot everything.
Everything, but Mickey.
It consumed us both in its blistering heat to the point mouths and tongues weren’t enough and we both started groping.
I was right.
He was hard and he was hot, everywhere I touched.
I loved it.
And his hands on me, over my clothes, did things to me I didn’t know I could feel.