I heave a sigh and start sliding out of the booth. She holds the black leather book she carries in front of her face, blocking herself from Heron’s view.
“If you don’t want to sit with him, it’s all right, I’ve got your back,” she whispers, snickering under her breath. “But he’s handsome and rich. I say go for it. Just don’t give him your room number!”
My jaw drops. “He’s Magnus Heron! The Magnus—”
“Oh, shit.” Her face goes completely white. “I’m so—”
“No, it’s fine.” I say limply. “I’ll sit with him.”
The terrified hostess isn’t wrong. He’s a blue-eyed beast designed to electrify lady bits, and the fact that she thinks so reminds me it’s not just in my head. Unfortunately.
So I try not to dwell on his smug, stupid, dangerously sexy face while she collects our stuff to get us situated.
She pulls the chair out on the other side of Mag’s table and sets the leather book down in front of me. “Here’s your menu.” She walks away.
“Wow,” I say, hefting its weight as soon as I sit down. “Feels like a history book.”
“It’s hardly as thick as it seems, just a few pages tucked inside. They do it for show.” Heron chuckles, burning me alive with that lightning in his eyes. “You must have eclectic taste for an English major. Wasn’t that the other degree listed next to fine arts on your resume?”
I scan the menu. “Huh?”
“I mean, to enjoy The Fireman’s Pregnant Tinkerbell.”
I’m busy reading the entrees—and frowning because there are no sandwiches, probably no fries, ugh—so it takes a second for his words to click.
Fireman’s Pregnant Tinkerbell? He must’ve seen my Amazon search.
Oh, great.
I decide to play it cool. After all, my personal shopping has zilch to do with him.
“Why would it have to be eclectic? There’s a literary reference right in the name. Sounds very English major-y to me,” I say.
“English major-y? Is that a word?” He holds his water up, taking a long, sardonic pull off the glass.
God. If only I could clock him in the nose right here.
“It is now,” I say without looking up.
“Interesting. I must’ve missed the part in Barrie’s work where Tinkerbell even met the fireman.” The bastard winks.
Winks.
My face heats at his words and I abhor how good he is at getting me all riled in more ways than one.
Yeah, no, I decide.
He’s not getting the satisfaction.
I scoff—I have to do something with the fire in my veins—and set the menu down so I can meet his eyes. “I’d love to meet a fireman. If I ever have an evening off in time for dinner, I’ll cruise Tinder or Match for one.”
“You’re serious? Firemen are your type?” His face becomes more serious and slightly angrier than it was like two seconds ago.
Oh, God. Thanks, Mom, for putting me in this predicament. You couldn’t just write a book with a more mysterious title?
I take a deep breath and look him square in the eye.
“Why does that shock you, Mr. Heron? Are you fireman-phobic? They’re heroic, hardworking, protective, and risk their butts all day to save lives,” I say, registering his grump-face growly mood with some satisfaction. I can’t resist adding a dollop of icing to the cake. “Plus, they’ve got big hoses. I know those are things preppy business guys probably wouldn’t know about, right?”
His face is, for once, completely blank.
I’ve caught him off guard.
Ha. I like being the one on top, so I continue while I’m on a roll.
“Especially the big hose part. I mean, you wouldn’t even know what to do with equipment like that. It’s not your fault. There’s no need for a long, thick hose in boardrooms.” I smirk at him and flip through my textbook of a menu again.
A second later, I’m actually a little mortified. My face heats, no doubt giving away the fact that I’m not as confident as my words.
What’s gotten into me?
Discussing long hoses with my egomaniac boss?
He manages a tight smile, then places his hand over my menu and pushes it back to the table.
Uh-oh.
“A woman I hired several EAs before you used to read similar paperbacks. There’d always be a guy in fire coveralls on the cover, jacket unbuttoned, chest bare, helmet clenched in his fist, glistening with sweat.” His voice is low, earnest, and he sounds kind of adorably clueless.
I snort. “Your point? Are you picking on romance readers or what?”
“Hardly. I’ll be the first in line to defend anyone’s choice in entertainment, considering the publishers we’ve run very lucrative marketing for,” he says, pausing to sip his ice-cold water. I’m dumbstruck, hating how my eyes stick to his face, his throat, as he swallows. “Here’s my point—the guys in those books are usually veterans, too, aren’t they?”
I glare. “I wouldn’t know. I think so. I’ve only read a few books about firemen.”
In truth, I’m more of a paranormal romance or family saga girl. Give me a hot vampire with glowing eyes and a silver tongue, and an attitude so horrible you can’t help but fall for—
Oof. Never mind.
But Heron seems to be obsessing over this fireman theme. Why?
That reminds me. I need to finish my bulk order. So I slide my phone out of my purse and pull up Mom’s author page again, clicking on her latest offering, and add a couple dozen copies to my cart.
The waitress comes up. “Are you ready to order?”
“I am. If he’s not, he can starve—”
Magnus smirks at me and closes his menu. “I’m ready.”
“I’ll have a peach Bellini and a steak. Rare. With fries?”
“Sorry. No fries on the menu this evening.”
“Baked potato then,” I say with a nod. “Load it up with everything.”
“Wonderful.” She taps my order into the iPad and looks at Heron. “And for you?”
“Lobster ravioli and a top-shelf bourbon. Surprise me.”
“Excellent choices.” The server looks back at me. “I’ll be right back with your drinks. Sorry it’s taking so long, we’re a tad short-staffed tonight.”
I smile. “No problem.”
I train my gaze back on Mag as she disappears to the next table.
“I’d kill for a drink right now,” I say.
“Lucky for you, Miss Bristol, she’s already bringing you one. I see your taste in liquid nectar rivals your love of coffee sweet enough to strip paint,” he says, lifting the other glass at his side.
“How hard is what you’re drinking?” I ask, betting the bourbon he ordered will be the fourth or fifth drink of the night. The vampire-freak in front of me has to unwind somehow, right?
“It’s tea,” he grunts. “Some sort of mango-flavored stuff from Hawaii.”
“I need a drink,” I repeat, draining the rest of my small water glass. “The massage therapist wasn’t kidding about feeling dried out.”
“Are you saying you want my tea?” He quirks an eyebrow.