“You look really nice,” Brandon comments as we wait to be seated. “That dress becomes you.”
With a flush of goosebumps, I smile and thank him for the compliment. I’m wearing one of Chaz’s sexy creations—a slenderizing strapless black high-low number. The flowy skirt with its asymmetrical layers of chiffon made it easy for me to straddle my legs on the Ducati. Thank goodness, it was such a short ride because the rest of my outfit was far from ideal—you try sitting on your ass on the back of a motorcycle with strappy stilettos and scanty lace panties. There are wedgies and there are wedgies. But I survived. And I’m grateful my hair survived the helmet. Loose, it falls over my shoulders in soft waves and complements the extra make-up I’m wearing.
I have to admit I look and feel like a million bucks. Glamorous enough to be seen with the likes of Brandon Taylor. I soak him in. Holy hotness! He looks devastating, dressed in a free-fitting collarless lavender linen shirt that he’s left partly unbuttoned…relaxed faded jeans…and a pair of expensive Italian black loafers. Of course, no socks. The epitome of pure movie star effortless sexiness. Despite the light breeze, heat spirals from my knees to my core.
“Ah! Great! Here comes Antoine,” my gorgeous companion says brightly, sparing me from saying something stupid or trite.
A wide grin stretches across the ma?tre-d’s face upon setting his eyes on Brandon. A robust man with a jet-black handlebar mustache, he gives him a kiss on each cheek.
“Monsieur Taylor, it eez so good to see you again! Comment ?a-va?”
“Très bien, Antoine.” He must also be the owner as the restaurant is called Antoine’s.
“Fantastique. You gave my wife et moi a great scare with zee accident.”
“I’m fine now,” Brandon assures him. “Perfectly fine.”
Smiling, the relieved Frenchman shifts his attention to me. “And who eez this beau-tee-ful woman? A girlfriend, peut-être?”
Brandon laces his fingers with mine. “She’s more than a girlfriend.”
A shiver skitters down my spine at both his unexpected gesture and words. What does he mean by that? Before I can manage a word, Antoine asks us where we prefer to sit. While it’s only mid-April, the balmy weather is summer-like, easily in the seventies. Brandon chooses a corner table for two outside overlooking the port. We pass a table occupied by a teenage couple goo-goo eyed in love and then several older locals engaged in lively conversation until catching sight of Brandon. Everywhere he goes, he turns heads, whether they recognize him or not. Unleashing my hand, my breathtaking companion helps me into a wicker bistro chair before lowering himself onto one facing me. The table is covered with a red-checkered tablecloth and is candlelit. The flickering candle bathes Brandon’s face in a warm glow, making him appear ethereal. Like a god. With his smoldering violet eyes and lashes so thick they should be illegal, that spiky muss of onyx hair, a parted mouth made for kissing…and let’s not forget that sculpted body…can anyone be more ridiculously beautiful? I’m glad I’m sitting because every bone in my body is liquid.
“Can I get you some apéritifs?” asks Antoine.
Brandon answers. “Oui. Two Americanos.”
“Parfait. I shall be right back.” Antoine scurries off.
I crinkle my nose. “Brandon, you’ve ordered Starbucks coffees?” An iced Americano is his morning brew of choice and a hot version mine.
Brandon laughs. “No, Zoey. It’s the original James Bond cocktail. It’s made with Campari, vermouth, and soda water. Antoine makes them with Perrier just the way 007 prefers them.”
“Oh.” A small voice inside my head tells me I shouldn’t be drinking. It is a business dinner, right?
“Trust me, you’ll like it.”
“I think I’m going to pass.”
“Stop it. I want you to try it.”
The drinks come in no time. “Let’s toast,” says Brandon, his eyes twinkling.
“Sure.” Falling under his spell, it takes all my effort to utter one little word. My vocabulary has grown limited.
“To us,” Brandon says demonstratively and then we clink our tumblers. The sparkling glasses ping like a bell. I follow Brandon and take a sip of the vibrant red cocktail.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I digest the flavor and swallow hard. The aftertaste is so bitter it makes my toes curl.
“I like it,” I say, screwing up my face.
Brandon leans into me and dusts my contorted lips with his forefinger. “You’re so adorable when you lie.”
Uh oh! He’s caught me in the act. That fateful spanking flashes into my head. He told me never to lie to him again. I could be in big trouble. Yet, I’m strangely excited in a good way.