I’m sure I could drive yours, she thought, then wondered where that lewd comment had come from. Maybe Trina had invaded her brain. Instead, she said, “It’s probably been fifteen years. I’m rusty at best.” Unfortunately, that applied to both scenarios, and she was thankful for the low light to hide her heating cheeks.
He drove on, moving in time with the roaring engine, taking curves at precise acceleration and responding to the car’s every need. Calli stared at him as he enjoyed the simplicity of working the machine beneath him. She had lost track of the lefts and rights through the city streets, but they were somewhere downtown and had parked underground by the time the engine whispered off. Dom helped her from the car into the heated garage. He removed his coat, then took hers and laid them both across the front seats. Then he slipped his hand into hers and led the way. Her heart flipped and flopped as they walked. She hadn’t held hands with anyone in so long, it was a mixture of feeling like a foolish teenage girl and somehow arousing.
The door they approached read, Babette’s. It wasn’t the street entrance to the classy steakhouse but a private door.
Calli hesitated, drawing Dom’s attention. He turned toward her, and before she knew it, he had his arms around her waist and they stood body to body. She raised her gaze, questioning his intentions, and they came nose to nose. Breaths mingled. Calli tasted mint in the air, and both of their breathing patterns became irregular. Hers hitched. Time stopped.
Was this . . . ?
Yes, it was.
Wordlessly, his hot lips met hers, and she felt the mint tingle on her lips. He coaxed her lips open, and she tasted the mint on his tongue. Her hands wandered up his arms to his neck as their lips moved together, each gasping for breath between kisses. He pulled her tighter, then slowed the kiss, and finally pulled back, smiling wickedly. Calli felt flushed from head to toe, throbbing lips begging for more.
“I’m sorry,” Dom breathed. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“Yeah,” was all Calli could say. Her eyes flicked toward the door.
“I know the owner.”
Of course, he did . . . he was in the business.
“Anyway,” he said but didn’t move.
“Yeah, we should . . . um,” Calli said, not wanting to let go either.
They both chuckled nervously. Dom reached up, running his hand from her elbow up her forearm to where her fingers still caressed the short hairs at his hairline. He pulled and held her hand, and she reluctantly released the other. He opened the door, allowed her to walk before him, and followed inside. Self-consciously, she ran a finger under her bottom lip, thankful she’d opted for lip gloss rather than a color.
A gentleman in a tuxedo with tails greeted them. “Good evening, Mr. Moretti and Miss.”
“Lindley,” said Dom. “How are you this evening, Bruce?” Dom held out a hand, and they shook.
“Doing well, sir. Your table is prepared. Right through there.” He motioned to the open double doors.
Dom led, Calli trailed, and Bruce pulled up the rear. A private room waited, dark-wood paneled with a fire in a hearth and glowing candles dappling the mantle. Opposite where they’d entered was a second door, presumably to the kitchen. A round table, dressed in white and set for two, sat in the center of the room with two lit candles. As Calli scanned the scene with open jaw, the host silently moved around them to the table and pulled a chair for her to sit.
“It’s the chef’s table.” Dom took the other chair.
Bruce draped black napkins across each of their laps and left them with a bon appétit.
The candles were positioned off-center on the table, perfect for a romantic dinner so as to not obstruct the couples’ view of one another.
“This is amazing.” Calli had never been in such a scene. At one time, Bennett had regularly taken her to the best restaurants, but he either hadn’t known that such rooms existed or never thought her special enough to treat like this. Probably the latter. Then it dawned on her. “Does Moretti’s have a room like this? Or a table?”
“Kind of. Moretti’s has a private kitchen with eat-in dining as the chef’s table.”
“A bit more casual,” Calli mused.
“That’s not the intent.” Dom pulled a bottle from the wine bucket near the table and poured a bubbling white. Replacing the bottle, he raised his glass.
Calli reciprocated the toast and asked, “Then what is the intent?”
“Intimacy with the chef.” He raised a perfect brow, his green-gray eyes catching the candlelight.
“You being the chef, I suppose.” She sipped, the sparkling rosé cool and crisp on her tongue.
“Only on very, very special occasions. I don’t cook for many people anymore,” he said.
“Oh,” said Calli, looking down at the table. For some reason, that stung.
“One day,” he said as the door opened.
The chef entered wearing the classic white hat with a pristine white double-breasted jacket with black collar, cuffs, and buttons. He placed a small, tented menu on the edge of the table. “Good evening,” he said. “My name is Marco, and I’ll be your chef for the evening. Your amuse-bouche will be a Maine lobster–stuffed petite portobello in a beurre blanc sauce; the soup an herbed French shallot; and the main course will showcase a quail breast presented on julienned baby carrots.”
Calli’s eyes grew progressively wider while the chef continued. “The salad course will consist of a bright pear, arugula, and pancetta mix. Your main course is a six-ounce bone-in ribeye with baked young russets.”
She was thankful that she hadn’t had much for lunch but still worried over where she’d put all that food. She glanced between her date and the chef.
Marco continued uninterrupted, “For dessert, a flourless chocolate soufflé with raspberry reduction. Naturally, my sommelier has chosen the perfect pairings for each course, with the exception of the main course. I believe you requested the Petite Petit, Mr. Moretti?” When Dom confirmed, Marco added, “Do you have any questions?”
“Marco, your menu sounds delightful. Thank you for the work.”
The chef puffed out his chest and nodded toward Dom, then to Calli, and retreated.
Calli reached for the sparkling wine—aperitif she guessed was the more appropriate terminology—and sipped. Setting down the fluted glass, she leaned toward her date. “Does everyone in the restaurant business try so hard to impress you?”
“Mmm, yes. Being famous in the industry comes with certain privileges, as well as a lack of privacy.” He turned to look at the door just as an onlooker ducked away. “And you wondered why I introduce myself as Nic in public.” He laughed, a deep and lush velvety sound.
Dom
Dom glanced at the succulent medium-rare steak, cut the final bite of ribeye from the bone, and raised his eyes back to Calli across the table. He placed the perfectly prepared steak onto his tongue, following it with the last of his red wine, still watching his date. She glowed more and more as the evening moved into night, and he felt privileged to be sitting across from such a lovely and sophisticated woman.
They’d chatted endlessly through the first four courses, but when the steak arrived, they’d both fallen silent. It’d been a comfortable silence as both enjoyed how the fatty red meat cut the bite of the tannic red wine. Dom placed his fork and knife across his plate, pleased with the meal, the wine, and that she’d eaten almost everything placed before her. He hated when a woman only took a bite here and there and didn’t enjoy her food.