He raised an amused brow. “Want to know what I think?”
“Fine. Let’s hear it.” I prepared myself for a matching pot and kettle remark. It was true I worked a lot of candlelight hours myself, but I never had places to go afterward. Never had anyone waiting for me.
“I think you think about me too much.” He backed it up with the grin he used when he’d won an argument.
My cheeks flooded with warmth. The statement was hard to refute, and thank goodness, I didn’t have to, because the hostess interrupted just then.
“Mr. Kincaid, your table is ready.” She started to lead the way back toward the restaurant.
Donovan put his arm out, waiting for me before he followed her. “Sabrina?”
“I haven’t decided if I’m staying yet.” He’d made it clear I wasn’t important or significant to him. On top of that, he believed I cared about him more than I should. Now I wasn’t just mad and hurt, I was also humiliated.
His expression said he found my emotional turmoil a bit boring or at least unnecessary. “Yes, you have. Why else would you have come at all?”
He’d caught me. Because of course I wouldn’t have shown up if I weren’t going to stay for something. And he’d only just arrived, so I couldn’t go now. Things were just getting started. Who the hell did I think I was fooling trying to pretend otherwise?
It didn’t make it any easier to accept. In fact, it felt like a trap. Like I’d been bullied, even though, of course, I was here of my own accord. Which was probably the worst part of all.
My frown deepened. “Fuck you.”
“We’ll get there.” This time his smile was a promise, and that was something I wanted him very badly to make good on in very bad ways.
As if sensing my defenses weakening, he pressed on. “At least stay for dinner. You’re here. You’re hungry. So am I.” This time he backed up the promise with his eyes—they were dark, more brown than green, dilated with desire, telling me his hunger belonged to more than just his stomach.
Yeah, I was hungry too. Very hungry.
But he’d made me feel shitty. Then been late for our dinner. And then made me feel shitty again.
“I know you didn’t eat much for lunch. You really should stay.” There was a note of concern in his tone that disarmed me.
“How do you know what I ate for lunch?” I hadn’t had much. I’d shoved a few bites of a salad in between agenda items, and I was ravenous.
“Because you had a team meeting, and you never eat much when you’re working.”
Damn, he really did still notice everything. My anger melted as my chest warmed.
“Fine. I’ll stay. Because I’m already here.” I let him put his hand at the small of my back and lead me to the front of the restaurant. It didn’t matter that I had two layers of clothing between his palm and my skin. The power of his touch came from the pressure he wielded as he directed me past tables, around this group of drinkers, around that crowd of lingering bar patrons.
It felt like a form of surrender, and for a few minutes at least, it seemed like I could give everything over to him—not just the path I walked, not just my body, but these stupid tangled up sentiments dwelling inside of me. I could give him my anger. I could give him my embarrassment. I could give him my hurt. And maybe he didn’t know any better what to do with them than I did, but for however long he held them, I wouldn’t have to feel them. And what an amazing gift that could be.
That alone would be worth staying for.
But then we were led beyond the hostess station to the coat check where two dark wooden benches lined the sides of the room. Donovan dropped his hand and my jumbled up emotions flooded back like a damn had broken.
“Please. Take your shoes off here,” the hostess said.
I knew about the Japanese formality in households, but I hadn’t been to a restaurant that had required it. Donovan sat down to remove his shoes. I hesitated, too consumed with the absence of his hand on me. I missed it already. Missed its heat. Missed its authority.
God, what was my problem?
And of course I was still standing there, shoes untouched, looking like an idiot when Donovan was already done. He looked up at me, his head tilted, then tapped his thigh, indicating I put my foot there. So I did.
After he undid the buckle of one strappy sandal and removed it slowly from my foot—which, holy hell, was maybe one of the sexiest things ever—he gestured for me to switch feet. When I did, my skirt caught on my garter, and though I fixed it almost right away, I saw Donovan staring before I did.
As fussed as I’d been all afternoon, the buzz I had from catching him checking me out was amazing. It was especially amazing when he had to adjust his pants when he stood again.
After we checked our shoes and coats, we followed our escort downstairs where the restaurant was actually located. As we walked down the narrow hall, we passed individual dining spaces, each separated by sliding shoji doors. Another set of doors was available to shut the rooms off entirely, but most of them were open. In each room, the dining table was low to the ground, and instead of chairs, they were surrounded by cushions for guests to sit on. Kneel on, actually.
I’d seen those kinds of tables in movies but never in a restaurant. In fact, they were exactly what I imagined when I thought of dining in a Japanese home.
“The tables are those kind,” I said, not knowing how else to express my surprise. “All little and low.”
“They’re called chabudai. I have one at my apartment.”
“That’s interesting.” Kind of cool was what I meant, but I wasn’t all the way ready to be friendly yet. Especially now that he no longer had his hand on my back.
“Okazu is a traditional Japanese restaurant,” he explained. “These are called tatami rooms, named for the straw mats, which are easily damaged and hard to clean. It’s why we took off our shoes.”
I smiled as we passed a little boy who waved at me over his soup bowl.
“Hard to clean but they’re kept under people when they eat food?” I was willing to bet that little kid alone had as much rice under his feet as he did in his belly.
The hostess stopped and gestured for us to enter our room.
“Have you never eaten Japanese before?” Donovan asked smugly from behind me as we walked in.
“Yes,” I said, offended. In fact, my first experience eating it had been with Weston back at Harvard all those years ago. Not something I intended to bring up now. “I might not be as experienced in the world as you are, but I am a somewhat cultured eater.”
I knelt where I was directed on the cushion near the far end of the table. “Now I haven’t eaten at a Japanese restaurant anywhere as fancy or as traditional as Okasu, but the food’s essentially the same, I’m sure.”
The hostess gasped while Donovan, who was unbuttoning his suit jacket so he could sit down, broke into a grin.