Page 63 of Maxwell

Maxwell sipped his drink, watching her over the rim of the glass. “Does seven on Friday work?”

“Works for me,” she agreed.

“Good.” He picked up his fork, a secret smile on his face, as if he’d won something. As if he suspected she was a goner.

The terrifying part was, she suspected she was too.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Where are we going?” Jasmine asked as Maxwell helped her into the Range Rover.

The appealing fragrance of bergamot lingered inside the vehicle and made her want to press her nose against his neck and take a big whiff.

“Beppe’s,” he answered, closing the door.

As he walked in front of the SUV, her eyes followed him. There was something hypnotic about the way his long legs moved in his tan chinos, with an effortless, easy swagger. Each step smooth and deliberate. She quietly admired the way the black, collared linen shirt stretched across his shoulders, the top button undone, giving him a casual, cosmopolitan appearance.

He appeared so effortlessly attractive, she was glad she had taken such care with her own appearance. Her asymmetrical off-the-shoulder dress was purposely one size larger than her norm—loose, comfortable, and chic.

She had spent almost an hour styling her curls—diffusing, scrunching, begging every ringlet to behave until they fell into place around her face. She had put forth more effort than she wanted to admit putting into a man she still wasn’t sure about, but there was no denying the final effect was perfection—big, full hair with soft curly bangs and the reddish-brown highlights doing their part to catch the light every time she moved her head.

“Have you ever been to Beppe’s?” Maxwell asked as he took the driver’s seat. His strong, veined hands settled on the wheel.

“No, but I hear the food is good. I thought for sure you’d take me to one of your brother’s restaurants.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“Then you’d think I was cheap.”

She laughed as he pulled away from the front of her building. “I would not have thought that. I promise.”

“Nice to know, but I couldn’t risk it.” He glanced at her. “You’ll like Beppe’s.”

Jasmine relaxed into the soft leather, excited about the dinner and spending time with Maxwell.

When they arrived at Beppe’s Cucina Italiana, the parking lot was already full, which wasn’t surprising for a Saturday night. Inside, the air smelled like garlic and butter and all the delicious spices the chefs incorporated into the food.

When the hostess greeted Maxwell by name, Jasmine shot a glance at him.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, leaning close. “I come here often—maybe too much. I rarely cook, which is embarrassing to admit since I have a really nice kitchen at my condo.”

They settled in their seats across from each other. “I can’t believe you don’t cook,” Jasmine said, picking up the menu.

“I can cook a little bit, but I’m no chef. I prefer someone else to cook, to be honest. That’s how I grew up.”

“Let me guess, you had a chef.”

“Yes.”

“Must have been nice.”

“Real nice, I can’t lie. Chef, housekeeper, plus my mother, and then my brother started cooking. Being the youngest, I never really had to learn.”

“You were spoiled?”

“Yes and no. I mean, I had the best of both worlds all my life.”