The Darkest Sunrise (The Darkest Sunrise #1)

Whirling around, I found him prowling toward me, a smile on his face, unmistakable heat in his eyes.

My stomach dipped as I raked my gaze down his body. Porter was tall, probably around six-three, and while he didn’t carry a suit of muscle, his every curve was toned and hard. His built shoulders strained against the confinement of his white button-down. And, with his sleeves rolled up, stopping below his elbow, his powerfully veined forearms were on full display. He’d been attractive at the hospital. But, God, he was in an entirely different category now.

“Jesus,” he breathed, stopping in front of me. “You…are stunning.”

His hands landed on my hips as he dipped to kiss my cheek.

“Hi,” I whispered, peeking up at him.

He grinned. “Hi.”

We silently stared at each other for several seconds as the waiting crowd carried on around us. I was more content in that quiet moment than I had been in years.

No questions.

No judgments.

No faking it.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, releasing my hips, and backing away a step.

The absence was staggering.

I swallowed hard. “I’m excited to see where you order cocktail napkins.”

He chuckled. “Smartass.”

After grabbing a menu from behind the hostess stand, he placed a hand on my lower back and led me through the restaurant. I had to give it to him; The Porterhouse was a sight to be seen. Tall booths lined the walls, while rustic, distressed tables created an aisle down the center. At the back, it T’d off to the left and the right, revealing smaller, slightly more secluded rooms. Brass lanterns with flickering candles adorned the tables, while the bright, white plates and shiny silverware gave it a classic Southern elegance.

Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who thought the place was amazing. Every table was full and dozens of waiters and waitresses bustled around us.

With a sweeping hand, Porter motioned toward an open booth.

“This place is incredible,” I said, sliding in on one side.

“Thanks. I’ll let Tanner know you think so.” He shrugged sheepishly and placed the menu in front of me. “I lost the Ninja Warrior course the day we competed for the ambiance. If it had been up to me, we’d have paper tablecloths and crayons.”

I laughed softly and set my purse beside me.

Tilting my head up, I saw him staring at me, a one-sided grin lighting his face.

My cheeks flamed red all over again.

And then he sat down…

Like, on the same side of the booth…

As in right next to me.

Who did that?

Oh God. Maybe I would need one of those excuses after all.

And then it got worse.

He angled to the side and leaned across me.

“Uhh…” I drawled.

Pressing against the back of the seat, I tried to get out of his way, but his large upper body was wedged between me and the table, his hand doing God only knew what underneath.

During all of this, I would be remiss if I didn’t admit to secretly sniffing him. (Come on. He was the one sitting on my side of the booth, which everyone including a socially inept person such as myself knew was a major dating faux pas. And then if you add in the weird leaning-into-my-lap thing…smelling him was the least of our problems.) But, dear God, did he smell good.

While I mentally congratulated myself on suppressing a moan, Porter suddenly sat up, his cell phone dangling from the end of a charger.

“Sorry. My phone died earlier while I was waiting on you.” He climbed out of the booth and moved to the bench across from me.

Praise. God.

“Were you waiting long?” I asked nervously. And, judging by the gorgeous smirk that tipped his lips, my cheeks had flashed from pink to red.

“Nope. You were right on time.” His eyes were bright as he confidently folded his hands in front of him and stared at me in the most unnerving way possible.

And this was Porter. It seemed that unnerving me was his favorite pastime.

Lifting the menu, I pretended to search the pages. “I usually am.”

“Good to know,” he mumbled, but I could still feel his gaze burning into me.

A chill traveled down my spine with as much excitement as discomfort.

Why was he staring at me like that?

Just as I decided to dig into my old jar of excuses and make a break for it, a young, attractive waitress appeared at the side of the table.

“Hey, Porter. You eating tonight?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Charlotte, you want a drink?”

“A glass of wine. White. House is fine.” I must have said it a little too eagerly, because Porter chuckled.

“Bring us a bottle of Sav Blanc. Australian. And I’ll take a Hendrix and tonic.”

“Two limes?” she chirped.

Though it was a damn miracle I heard her at all, because right then, Porter reached across the table and hooked my fingers with his.

“That’d be great,” he said.

I felt her presence leave. Not that I looked up to confirm or anything. That would have required me to make eye contact, and I feared that my cheeks would go up in flames. And, beyond that, I was too busy pretending to be enthralled with the menu rather than the fact that he was now holding my hand.

Christ. I should have known better than to go on a date.

“Charlotte,” he called softly.

“What do you recommend?” I asked.

His thumb brushed over my knuckles. “Charlotte,” he repeated.

“I haven’t had a decent steak in a while.” I turned the page, not seeing a single word.

“Charlotte,” he repeated, this time louder.

Without any way to ignore him longer, I looked up. “Yeah?”

His handsome face was warm with understanding. “Relax.”

I allowed the menu to fall to the table and grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been on a date in a really long time. At least, not a good one. Rita set me up with her hairdresser’s son a few months back. But he was an accountant, so I snuck out the bathroom window.”

His eyebrows popped up, but I carried on because, well, he was still staring at me and still stroking his thumb over the back of my hand in a way that felt divine—and slightly petrifying.

“I work twenty-four hours a day. And live and breathe my career. I don’t know what Rita told you about me, but I can assure you it wasn’t true. I’m not funny or interesting like she loves to tell men. In truth, my life is a mess. I’m a boring homebody who reads medical journals for entertainment and survives on microwave dinners for one. I appreciate you asking me out to dinner. I really do. But I’m not sure I can do this.”

He continued to stare at me, but his eyes took on a humorous glint.

Great. He was laughing at me.

I needed to get the hell out of there. But first I had to get my hand back.

Grabbing my purse, I gave my hand a tug, but he kept it pinned to the table.

“He was an accountant?”

Of all the questions I figured he’d ask after my little trip to the restaurant confessional, that was not one I’d considered.

“Yeah. It was terrible.”

He laughed. “And you thought you were boring.”