Apparently the rules of social etiquette weren’t foremost on Donovan’s priority list.
With a sigh that could be construed as grumbling, I sat down at a high-top and considered ordering a martini to settle my nerves. Before I’d decided, I got a text. On my way. Take off your panties while you’re waiting.
I grumble-sighed again, though this time butterflies did a bunch of aerial tricks in my stomach simultaneously.
He really wanted me to take off my panties? Why? Just so he’d know? That was kind of hot. Thinking about sitting, bare, next to him did a bunch of fantastically scandalous things to my mind.
Or was he planning on more? Like fingering me discreetly at the dinner table?
I blushed at the completely impractical idea.
And then was struck with a totally practical thought—take them off and put them where? My purse was exactly big enough for my phone, my house key, my credit card, my ID, and a tube of lip gloss. Was I supposed to carry them? Stuff them down my bra? Leave a hundred dollar pair of La Perlas in the trash?
Nope. I wasn’t doing it. Besides, I wouldn’t reward him for his tardiness. I wasn’t even sure I was staying.
Another quarter of an hour later, he still hadn’t arrived, and I was irritated. Especially since I had decided against ordering the martini. This was beyond rude. He could have just let me cancel when I’d told him I wanted to. This was intolerable. I refused to wait another minute.
I stood up and headed out of the bar toward the front of the lobby, and walked smack into the most delicious smelling man wearing a fitted suit over a solid chest. I recognized him by the feel of his torso and the way he gripped my arm to steady me. I didn’t have to look up to know it was Donovan.
But I did look up. So I could shoot poison-tipped daggers with my eyes.
“I apologize,” Donovan said with a decidedly unapologetic smirk. “I got wrapped up in something last minute at work and lost track of time.”
I jerked my arm away. I would have understood if an emergency had come up. He was one of the CEOs. He sometimes had to put out fires. That he’d just “lost track of time”, however, added insult to injury. I’d been irritated with him all day long and not for a single moment had I been able to forget that I had plans with him later.
Was I that unremarkable? Was that the point he’d been trying to make when he’d told me we weren’t in a relationship?
I crossed my arms over my chest and frowned. “I think it’s interesting that you can’t even leave work when you have plans. Nothing’s important enough to tear Donovan Kincaid away from his office before he’s ready.”
He raised an amused brow. “Want to know what I think?”
“Fine. Let’s hear it.” I prepared myself for a matching pot and kettle remark. It was true I worked a lot of candlelight hours myself, but I never had places to go afterward. Never had anyone waiting for me.
“I think you think about me too much.” He backed it up with the grin he used when he’d won an argument.
My cheeks flooded with warmth. The statement was hard to refute, and thank goodness, I didn’t have to, because the hostess interrupted just then.
“Mr. Kincaid, your table is ready.” She started to lead the way back toward the restaurant.
Donovan put his arm out, waiting for me before he followed her. “Sabrina?”
“I haven’t decided if I’m staying yet.” He’d made it clear I wasn’t important or significant to him. On top of that, he believed I cared about him more than I should. Now I wasn’t just mad and hurt, I was also humiliated.
His expression said he found my emotional turmoil a bit boring or at least unnecessary. “Yes, you have. Why else would you have come at all?”
He’d caught me. Because of course I wouldn’t have shown up if I weren’t going to stay for something. And he’d only just arrived, so I couldn’t go now. Things were just getting started. Who the hell did I think I was fooling trying to pretend otherwise?
It didn’t make it any easier to accept. In fact, it felt like a trap. Like I’d been bullied, even though, of course, I was here of my own accord. Which was probably the worst part of all.
My frown deepened. “Fuck you.”
“We’ll get there.” This time his smile was a promise, and that was something I wanted him very badly to make good on in very bad ways.
As if sensing my defenses weakening, he pressed on. “At least stay for dinner. You’re here. You’re hungry. So am I.” This time he backed up the promise with his eyes—they were dark, more brown than green, dilated with desire, telling me his hunger belonged to more than just his stomach.
Yeah, I was hungry too. Very hungry.
But he’d made me feel shitty. Then been late for our dinner. And then made me feel shitty again.
“I know you didn’t eat much for lunch. You really should stay.” There was a note of concern in his tone that disarmed me.
“How do you know what I ate for lunch?” I hadn’t had much. I’d shoved a few bites of a salad in between agenda items, and I was ravenous.
“Because you had a team meeting, and you never eat much when you’re working.”
Damn, he really did still notice everything. My anger melted as my chest warmed.
“Fine. I’ll stay. Because I’m already here.” I let him put his hand at the small of my back and lead me to the front of the restaurant. It didn’t matter that I had two layers of clothing between his palm and my skin. The power of his touch came from the pressure he wielded as he directed me past tables, around this group of drinkers, around that crowd of lingering bar patrons.
It felt like a form of surrender, and for a few minutes at least, it seemed like I could give everything over to him—not just the path I walked, not just my body, but these stupid tangled up sentiments dwelling inside of me. I could give him my anger. I could give him my embarrassment. I could give him my hurt. And maybe he didn’t know any better what to do with them than I did, but for however long he held them, I wouldn’t have to feel them. And what an amazing gift that could be.
That alone would be worth staying for.
But then we were led beyond the hostess station to the coat check where two dark wooden benches lined the sides of the room. Donovan dropped his hand and my jumbled up emotions flooded back like a dam had broken.
“Please. Take your shoes off here,” the hostess said.
I knew about the Japanese formality in households, but I hadn’t been to a restaurant that had required it. Donovan sat down to remove his shoes. I hesitated, too consumed with the absence of his hand on me. I missed it already. Missed its heat. Missed its authority.
God, what was my problem?
And of course I was still standing there, shoes untouched, looking like an idiot when Donovan was already done. He looked up at me, his head tilted, then tapped his thigh, indicating I put my foot there. So I did.
After he undid the buckle of one strappy sandal and removed it slowly from my foot—which, holy hell, was maybe one of the sexiest things ever—he gestured for me to switch feet. When I did, my skirt caught on my garter, and though I fixed it almost right away, I saw Donovan staring before I did.
As fussed as I’d been all afternoon, the buzz I had from catching him checking me out was amazing. It was especially amazing when he had to adjust his pants when he stood again.