I watch her for a moment, drinking her in. “We’ll see.”
She turns her attention to the ice bucket I’m still holding. “Are we having some or what?”
“I guess.”
I feel my face getting warmer, so I quickly turn around to hide it from Charlie.
“And those flowers?”
Ah shit. What’s wrong with me? I’m acting like an idiot.
I grab the bouquet and give it to her. “For you, sweetheart.”
She brings the roses to her nose and takes a deep breath. “They smell lovely. Not as good as you though. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Why don’t you pop that bottle while I go put these in a vase?”
“All right.”
“How are we on time? How long until we need to be at the restaurant?”
“Half an hour. It’s not that far from here.” I open the champagne bottle with a loud pop—at least I didn’t screw this part up.
“We probably should call an Uber soon. You never know how long it’ll take to find a ride.”
I smile to myself, remembering her comment about punctuality. “I have one request for tonight.” I turn around, holding two flutes of champagne.
“And what is it?” She takes one.
“That you don’t stress about anything. Cheers.”
We clink our glasses together, and then, with our gazes locked, we take a sip of the champagne. I’m not particularly fond of it, but Jane said it was a must.
“Okay, I’ll try.” She takes another sip and then sets the glass down.
“You don’t like it?”
“I do. It’s not something I drink often though.”
Shit, Jane. I shouldn’t have listened to you.
I must have shown my disappointment on my face, as she’s quick to add. “I love that you thought about it though. Super romantic. You’re definitely trying to get lucky tonight.”
“Yep. But you know how men live in hope—”
“And die in despair,” she finishes for me.
We don’t speak for several beats, and I’m highly aware of the stupid smile I’m sporting now. The air between us crackles with electricity and sexual tension. It won’t take long until one of us caves to the pressure. My cock stirs in my pants, and I know it might be me tonight.
“So, where are we going?” she asks, breaking the silence.
“It’s a surprise.”
Her eyes twinkle with excitement. “I can’t wait.”
27
CHARLIE
Troy picked a small, intimate French restaurant located in an unpretentious open mall just twenty minutes from the house. The décor is rustic with a whimsical touch thanks to the exposed brick walls and twinkling lights hanging from them.
There’s no hostess; we’re greeted by the chef himself as we come through the door. He ushers us to our table in a flurry of excited comments.
“Monsieur Alexander. It’s so good to see you. Oh, and you brought a lovely mademoiselle tonight.”
“Yes. This is our first date.”
“Is that so? Oh, then you need our very best table. Come this way.”
Not long after we’re seated at a cozy table in the corner, our waiter comes with the menu. “Can I interest you in something to drink?” he asks.
“Would you like a cocktail first, or straight to wine?” Troy asks me.
I can’t answer. I’m too awestruck at the moment. “Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe just sparkling water for now.”
“Same,” he tells the waiter.
When he leaves, Troy turns his attention to me. “I have to ask you this because I feel like I’ve already messed up royally. What are your favorite drinks?”
“You didn’t mess up. The champagne was a nice touch.”
He narrows his eyes. “Was it though? You barely touched it.”
“Because I didn’t want to get wasted before we even left the house.”
“Oh. Okay then. Are you saying you’re a lightweight?”
“To certain alcoholic beverages, yes. Champagne is one that goes to my head quicker than others. But I’m fine with drinking tequila shots or Duck Farts, for instance.”
Troy’s eyebrows shoot to the heavens. “Duck Farts? What in the world is that?”
“It’s a combination of Kahlúa, Irish cream, and whiskey. But I prefer it without the Kahlúa. It’s delicious.”
“Noted. Would you like to have that instead of wine? I’m sure they can make it for you.”
“Oh no. I don’t think it goes with French cuisine. Wine is fine.”
“Does it also go to your head faster?” His lips curl into a mischievous smile.
I watch him through slits. “Why do you want to know, Troy? Are you planning on getting me drunk so I can lose the bet?”
He widens his eyes innocently. “Me? Of course not. Are you implying you turn into a nympho under the influence?”
My face bursts into flames. No, you’ve turned me into one, Troy.
“I’m not saying that at all,” I lie.
I’m already hanging on by a thread. Sitting across from him in his suit jacket that makes him look like he just sprang from a fashion magazine, plus being under the allure of his intoxicating scent, is already doing crazy things to my body. I really don’t need to add alcohol to my system; it’ll shut my brain down, and then my body will take control.
“Okay. Just checking.” He opens the wine list and does a quick perusal of the menu. “Do you have any preference in mind?”
“Oh please. I know nothing about wine. You go ahead and pick.”
He looks up. “What gives you the idea that I know about wine?”
“Aren’t you a regular here?”
“Kind of. This is Grandma’s favorite restaurant. I always come with her, and she chooses the wine.”
“I guess we’ll just have to gamble then.” I wink at him.
He scrunches his nose. “Maybe we’ll let the waiter suggest something.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The server returns with our water, and after we tell him we have no clue about wine, he’s more than happy to suggest a bottle. We turn our attention to the dinner menu, and I’m faced with the impossible choice of selecting what I want. Everything looks delicious.
“Besides your unusual reaction to alcohol, anything else I should know beforehand?” Troy asks.
I chuckle. “What do you mean by unusual?”
“I’ve never met someone before who would get drunk from a glass of champagne but could handle copious amounts of tequila and whiskey with no problem.”
“What can I say? I’m special.”
“Oh, I know that.” He smirks.
I watch him through slitted eyes. “Somehow I feel your statement has a double meaning.”
“Maybe, but nothing bad. I promise.”
I open my mouth to ask him to elaborate, but the waiter returns to take our orders, and when he leaves, I decide to let the subject drop.
“How long have we been living together?” Troy leans back, obviously comfortable. Even though I pegged him to be a rowdy jock when we met, he fits perfectly in this sophisticated environment. He’s like a rogue prince from a fairy tale.