As with the rest of the hotel, Ryan is known in the restaurant. The moment we set foot through the door, a distinguished man with graying temples and perfect posture strides toward us.
The space itself is beautiful, as is every part of this hotel that I have seen. The paneling is a deep mahogany, and the tables are draped with crisp white cloths. Sturdy, comfortable-looking chairs surround the tables, upholstered in warm red leather.
The art is appealing, hyper-realistic paintings of wine bottles and glasses, each larger than life and brimming with color. The lighting is low but not too dark, and the acoustics are good enough to hear your companions but not so good that you can eavesdrop on the next table.
Best of all, it smells incredible.
“Mr. Hunter, so good to see you again. Your usual table?”
“Not tonight, Stephen. The lady and I would like some privacy. Is station twelve available?”
“It is,” Stephen says, and he leads us to a round booth in the back of the restaurant from which we can see the rest of the room, and yet we still feel secluded. It is, I think, the perfect date table.
Ryan orders wine and oysters on the half shell, and Stephen nods in acknowledgement before leaving us alone.
“If this isn’t your table,” I begin as soon as Stephen is out of earshot, “where do you usually sit with your women?” I add a teasing quality to my voice, but the truth is that I want to know. I am not jealous—not really. But my curiosity borders on intense.
“I’ve never brought a woman here,” he says.
“Because you’re always working when you come to Starfire?”
“No,” he says. “I have access to the suite anytime.”
“Oh,” I say, finding that tidbit of information extremely fascinating.
He leans over and brushes a kiss over my lips. “I haven’t brought a woman,” he says, “because there’s never been a woman I wanted to bring.”
I force myself not to grin like a fool. After all, Ryan’s dating history shouldn’t be of any interest to me. Not now. Not with me just days away from returning to Texas.
All true, and yet I can’t deny the fingers of delight that dance along my spine, making my body tingle with the knowledge that, at least as to this one small thing, I am unique and special to him.
I clear my throat so as not to show my pleasure. “I didn’t realize you’d been celibate before me,” I tease.
“Are you fishing, Ms. Archer?” he asks. “Should I be flattered?”
I frown. “Flattered?”
He slides his hand along my leg, making the silk of the dress rub provocatively over my skin. “That you’re jealous of the other women I’ve dated.”
I lick my lips, my legs now warm, my sex now tingling. “We’re not dating.”
“You’re right. I’ll rephrase. Are you jealous of the other women I’ve fucked?”
What the hell, I think, and then answer. “Yes,” I say boldly. “I am.”
His smile is triumphant. “Good.” He tightens his fingers on my thigh then leans over and kisses my cheek. “I’ll tell you a secret, kitten. I’ve been with a lot of women. You’re the only one who has truly gotten under my skin.”
I feel a rush of cold at his words, like a victim going into shock. I don’t think this is fear, though. I think it is hope. Sweet, delicious, terrifying hope. “Be careful,” I say quickly before he has the chance to study my silence. “You’re going to break the rules. You’re going to knock me off-kilter.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “But I wonder if I should be the one who’s jealous?”
“Maybe you should,” I say flippantly. “I’ve fucked a lot of men.”
The words come easily. Hell, he’s easy. Maybe it’s because I know that this is a temporary thing that will end when we reach Dallas. Maybe it’s because he’s Ryan.
Maybe it’s because we started as friends even if, in some secret deep part of myself, I want to end up so much more. All I know is that this is comfortable.