No, she doesn’t.
That blush creeping up her neck during our confrontation was a dead giveaway—she was just as attracted to me as I was to her. Rage may have been simmering in her veins but it was mixed with a burning desire she couldn’t hide. I have to believe that. Otherwise, I really will feel like the utter and complete asshole she probably thinks I am.
I say goodbye to Rick and turn back to Gabe. “Let’s just get the fuck outta here.”
By the time we get to the club, I’m confident I made the right decision in sending the flowers. I’ve never been one to second-guess my decisions when it comes to women. At least…I wasn’t before Becca, but it has been a long time since I asked someone out on a date, and even longer since I went on a first date with someone, let alone someone who wasn’t exactly thrilled to meet me in the first place.
I could debate myself in a circle about this. Part of me wants her to decline my invitation, but the bigger part of me needs her to accept. The way she stormed into my office and didn’t give me an inch, despite my somewhat condescending attitude toward her ethical conflict with her sister’s profession and my business…I’ve never been with a woman like that, someone who exudes confidence and doesn’t back down from someone like me.
It intrigues me; she intrigues me. She makes me question what I’ve been doing the last thirty years with women who were meek, easy, happy to appease. Something about her “take no shit” attitude made me instantly hard, and that truly is a feat. It terrifies me as much as it excites me.
Waiting two more days to see if she shows for dinner is going to do a real fucking number on my psyche, and my dick.
The back corner booth at Angelo’s is usually more comfortable. Tonight, sitting and waiting for Danika, my usual table just doesn’t have the same feel. I swirl the Chianti in my glass and take a long sip, letting the thick wine slide down my throat and praying it helps calm my nerves.
Nerves. Jesus Christ, I haven’t had nerves about anything since I was in middle school. In the last week, I’ve somehow reverted to my insecure ten-year-old self.
My watch does nothing to assuage my fears. When I see it’s already 8:15, I shift uncomfortably as the once-delicious wine begins to sour in my stomach.
She’s late. Hell, I don’t even know if she will show.
Maybe I fucked up?
Maybe the flowers were overkill? But, what girl doesn’t love roses? And two dozen of them at that? I thought they were the perfect accompaniment to my dinner invitation.
I guess I expected she would call to let me know one way or the other if she was going to show up tonight, but since I spend most Friday nights here anyway, I figure it can’t hurt to hold out some hope.
But, then again, maybe it can. My hand begins to shake and I set down the wine glass so my anxiety isn’t quite so obvious. If she shows up, she can’t see me this way. A strong, confident woman like her would do a stiletto-heeled one eighty if she found me here shaking like a leaf.
What the fuck do I do if she doesn’t show up? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this girl. How will I ever get her out of my mind if I haven’t at least tried?
Staying busy at work hasn’t done the trick, nor has beating myself up at the gym. Gabe keeps telling me I’m working myself too hard, but he’s smart enough not to press it with me. I may not be my father, but I can still kick his ass and he knows it.
Across the main room of the restaurant, Michael, my regular waiter, catches my eye. He approaches the table with a half-hearted smile.
“Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. Hawke?”
“No, Michael, not right now.” He refills my wine glass and gives me a small bow before retreating to the kitchen.
How long do I wait here, alone, before I order dinner or go home? Shit, being stood up right now would be a real kick to the nuts.
I reach for my glass, put it to my lips, and take another long pull at the red liquid, thankful I have it to keep me company. In my peripheral vision, I see a flash of blonde and turn to find Danika making her way toward my table. Her long hair is twisted up and pulled back, away from her face, and she’s decked out in a fantastic knee-length black dress with a plunging neckline that shows just a tasteful hint of cleavage.
My lips twitch up in the first smile I’ve managed all night, and I try, probably unsuccessfully, to hide my delight at her arrival. Jumping up and down like a middle school kid who just received his first kiss would probably not be a huge turn on for her right now.
“Ms. Eriksson, I am so glad you could join me this evening.”
She returns my smile, drops her purse on the bench next to her, and settles in the seat across from me.
“Thank you for the invitation,” she replies, somewhat coolly.