Page 11 of When the Walls Come Down
I stared at him incredulously, refusing to allow my eyes to dip to his bicep stretching the sleeve of his white dress shirt. Yeah, okay, fine, I ogled a little bit. “You never asked for my name.”
He stared right back, appearing that he recognized I was right.
He had a weird way about him, but that twitchy grin and lifty eyebrow thing he had going on was definitely flirty.
“You know my name and didn’t have to ask for it,” he stated.
I wanted to be annoyed, but I had to admit that the man gave good banter. “Yes, because you told me your name when you stormed over here like you owned the place.”
“Well, I know the owners quite well. And like I said, I come here a lot. Ironically, just today it’s been brought to my attention that I eat here too often.” His broad shoulders angled toward the kitchen as he nodded at someone looking through a small square window in the passthrough door. He then shifted his focus directly at me. After a deep breath and another big drink of his beer, he finally spoke. “Listen, this is probably obvious already, but I don’t do this—ever. But I like talking to you. I like your accent. And again, forgive my poor small talk skills, but I have to say you’re stunning. It’s hard to take my eyes off you. So maybe you’ll have dinner with me,” he rumbled, more of an order than a request.
Poor small talk my ass.
I was not a woman who swooned easily, but either he’d been bluffing or it really had been too long since I’d flirted with a man. “I’m not hungry, and after that steak you had, there’s no way you are, either.”
His jaw flexed, rocked to one side, and then the most brilliant white smile split his mouth. “What? That steak I had down there?” He pointed down the bar where he’d been sitting with—according to her uniform—a chef or cook or whoever she was when I’d come in. “Peach, you checked me out while I was eating. I’m flattered.”
“Stop calling me Peach. And no. I was checking out your steak. New restaurant. I was curious about the…fare.” The fare? What the hell? Who said the fare unless they were a medieval food wench? Nevertheless, I didn’t allow the word-choice regret to reach my face.
“Right,” he breathed, so damn proud of himself. Propping his hand under his chin like Rodin’s sculpture of The Thinker, he flexed. “And how did you find the fare?”
His warm eyes now held more confidence, as if he’d somehow relaxed in just the few minutes we’d spent together. And, Lord help me, the more relaxed he got, the more nervous I became.
This was moving fast, but I’d done what I’d come to do.
Yep. Time for me to head home. I’d gone out like Melanie had insisted. I’d even made admittedly strange small talk with a stranger. Mission accomplished. I could officially go home, put my pajamas back on, and plot out how much tinsel I’d need to make a giant wreath for my brick wall view.
Rising to my feet, I drained my drink and set it back on the bar. “Two stars. Would not recommend. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get home.”
He laughed, loud and rich. The kind that would cause anyone who heard it to smile too. “Hey, hey, wait.” His large hand gently wrapped around my forearm. “I didn’t mean dinner tonight. What about tomorrow?”
“Damn, I already ate tomorrow.”
He pouted, and sweet Lord, it was almost as ridiculous as it was sexy. “Come on, Not Peach. One dinner. That’s all I’m asking for. If nothing else, I’ll give you the nickel tour of the city.” Releasing my arm slowly, he stood up, towering over me, and damn if too close didn’t feel too close anymore.
Who.
Was.
This.
Guy.
He raked his teeth over his bottom lip as he peered down at me.
I did not, under any circumstances, imagine how they’d feel grazing across my skin. “Calling me Not Peach is still calling me Peach.”
He nodded. “This is true, but also another practical reason why you should give me your name.” His eyes never left mine as he slapped around on the bar until he found his phone. “And while you’re at it, I’ll take your number too.” His hopeful grin was nearly contagious.
“Slow down there, speed racer. We barely know each other. What if you’re some kind of maniac?”
His arm shot out to the side and he snapped his fingers continuously.
Chris wandered over. “What now, Casanova?”
“I need a character witness. Tell her I’m not crazy.”
“Certifiable,” Chris replied without so much as a blink.
A laugh escaped my throat. “Wow. That’s some endorsement.”
Shane’s mouth fell open. “What the hell, man? I thought I meant something to you.”
Chuckling, Chris lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Nah. I’m kidding. I’ve known him a long time. If you don’t bore easily, he’s an okay guy. Definitely not a wildcard.”
