Matt grins. “No. Not yet anyway.”
“Okay!” Time to get the hell out of here. “I’m starving. What did you have in mind?” Meanwhile, I’m trying to usher Matt out of the apartment.
“I could go for a steak. Though you haven’t eaten a truly good steak unless you’ve had one in Texas.”
Matt chuckles as he crosses the hall to his door. “We know how to cook a steak up here in New York too,” he assures my date.
“We’ll see.” Paxton gives him a tight nod while I struggle with the lock on my door.
My palms are so sweaty that I can barely get the key into the lock without fumbling and almost dropping it.
What is it with these men when they meet Matt? Seriously, he’s just my neighbor.
I don’t breathe easily until we’re on our way down the stairs and Matt is behind us.
What is it about him lately? Sure, it was thoughtless of me to forget to let him know about the change of plans tonight, but he’s not usually like this.
“At least you don’t have to worry about intruders and threats, living in the big city by yourself.” Paxton casts a look up the stairs just before we turn on the landing to go down the next flight. “Not with a bulldog like that living across the hall.”
I definitely need to change the subject. “What’s it like outside? Should I have brought a wrap?”
“I think you’ll be just fine with my arm wrapped around you,” he states, tucking me under his arm as we walk out of the building.
Nothing like the perfect start to a first date—thanks to Matt—but Paxton’s arm around me is already making it better.
CHAPTER FIVE
“So, tell me more about yourself. I want to know all about you.”
Darn it. Not that I’m against talking about myself per se, but it’s so much more fun to listen to him. That slight twang to his voice is enough to melt me down to nothing. I would listen to him read the restaurant menu all night long if it came down to that.
Still, I can’t refuse him, not when he’s looking at me the way he is. The lighting in the restaurant is dim, the atmosphere sophisticated and quiet. There’s definitely a sexy vibe around here too—one of those very masculine, very classy places with black walls and supple, high-backed leather booths. I feel like I have to speak in a whisper so as not to take away from the vibe.
“I’m a pretty simple person.” I shrug. “As we established last night, I don’t fit in very well with my grandmother’s crowd.”
“You did establish that, yes.” His mouth twitches, like he’s trying to hold back a smile.
“I’m a writer, which you probably overheard last night as well.”
“I did overhear that. I understand you write”—he finally smiles—“romance. Not filth.”
“It’s amazing how just you saying that word puts me right back in that moment.”
“I’m sorry.” He gets serious again. “Honestly, I’m not trying to antagonize you. The whole thing sounds pretty silly to me. You were right to call her out for being a hypocrite. I know a lot of women like her, and you hit the nail on the head. The ones with the biggest trust funds are the first ones to tell other people how to live their lives. The hypocrisy can be downright staggering.”
I can’t help myself. “You know a lot of women like her?”
He’s cool rather than rising to the bait. “I’ve known my share. Which is why I’m out with you right now and not one of them.”
I still can’t help myself. “I saw a few trying to catch your eye last night. That blonde even pretended to stumble, so she could fall into you at the bar.”
His head snaps back slightly. “Is that what that was about? I thought she’d tripped.”
“Please. I’m surprised you have any feeling in your arm after the way she was holding on to you last night.”
“You’re observant.” He’s chuckling as he raises his glass of scotch. “I suppose that comes with the territory of being a writer though. You get to observe people and put them into your books.”
This is it. This is when I have to tell the truth. Isn’t it? I mean, that’s the only fair thing to do.
He deserves to know he might end up in a book if this goes anywhere, which I most sincerely hope it will because just sitting across the table from him has my nerves sizzling, my heart fluttering. It’s like being a teenager with a crush. I have to remind myself that eye contact is not a bad thing, that I should stop blushing and looking away when he tries to hold me in place with that penetrating stare of his.
“It’s funny you should mention that. I’m in the process of getting started with my new book right now. And it might hit close to home for you—the main character, I mean.”
“How so?”
Might as well get the whole thing out of the way now. I take another sip of my drink before launching into a shortened version of the story, but this time, I decide to not go so far back.
I simply say, “My editor wanted to change my image a bit and asked me to write about leading men from different walks of life.”
He leans back against the booth, nodding slowly. “And this time, you have to write about, what?”
I cringe a little. “A cowboy.”
“I see. So, the reason you were interested in me last night was for the sake of a book?”
“Oh God, no!” I rush out.
“I was only kidding,” he whispers. “I’m the one who approached you, remember?”
Oh. Right. “That wasn’t funny.”
“You’re right. It wasn’t. Can you forgive me?”
“I guess so.” I give him a little shrug. “I do have to write a book after all.”
He has a very nice laugh, the kind of laugh that gives a person no other choice but to join in. “Hey, what man wouldn’t want to be the subject of a romance novel?”
“It wouldn’t be you exactly. But I need to research, you know? Learn about your business, find out the sort of things you do. People want to dismiss romance, but it involves just as much research and care as any other genre.”
“I have no doubt. And I respect your hard work.” He leans in closer, eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “Are you sure there aren’t any other ways I could provide inspiration?”
Yep, there’s that tingle again. Only now, I have the real thing in front of me, not just a picture. I manage to catch my breath enough to whisper, “Well, that depends on how you feel about after-hours research. I would never want to assume.”
My entire body lights up like he just touched a match to a flame. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m sitting here, blatantly flirting with this guy, and he doesn’t mind knowing there’s a book at stake.
“I’m afraid my after-hours services as a consultant on this work of fiction will require compensation.” He folds his hands on top of the table, sitting up straighter, like we’re suddenly negotiating in a boardroom.
“And just what should this compensation consist of?”
“I think you’ll find it pretty standard. Frequent meals together while I’m in town this week. The occasional hand-holding. Maybe a peck on the cheek when I drop you off at home.”