Read Online Far Too Tempting by Lauren Blakely - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Blakely
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His eyes are usually so playful, and they seem to twinkle. But now there’s an intensity to them, and they’re darker. Neither of us says anything, and the electric quiet makes my brain feel blurry and my blood turn hot.
“Pretty ladies?” I ask carefully, in an uncertain voice.
“Like you,” he answers, looking me straight in the eyes. I don’t want to look away. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to do a single thing to ruin this moment.
Then the waiter brings the bill, and the moment and whatever it was turning into is broken. Before I can reach inside my bag to retrieve the gift certificate, Matthew has already handed the waiter his credit card and sent him on his way.
“I was going to pay. I told you I had a gift certificate. The meal was supposed to be on me.”
He waves his hand in the air. “I love that you offered and you’re very generous. But we have a policy at Beat . We can’t accept any kind of gifts. So I’ll be picking up the tab for the next few months.”
I smile at him, giving him a flirty tilt of the head. “You’re presumptuous.”
“Optimistic, I like to think,” he says as the waiter returns his credit card and he tucks it back into his wallet. Then he adds, “Besides, even if we were just having dinner I’d want to pay then, too.”
“You would?”
“Of course,” he answers and his voice is stripped of all the teasing, all the toying, even all that journalistic seriousness. He seems so completely sincere in his tone, in his features, and then he does that thing again—where he reaches for my hand, clasping his on top of mine. I’m suddenly aware of the pressure on my wrist. Of the smooth inside of his palm. How his skin feels hot on my skin. I’m dying for him to slide his fingers through mine, because that would be a sure sign, right?
“Of course I would want to take you out, Jane.”
I am warm all over with his words. Does he mean them? That I’m pretty, that he’d want to have dinner even if it were just dinner? I don’t know how to read into his words, or if I should. But I want to read into them. I want to believe in this hand on mine. That he wants to be touching me, as much as I want this trace of contact with him.
“You would?” I start to say, but then I swallow the words because I can’t trust him, and I certainly can’t trust myself. “Hey, I have a totally wild idea,” I say, brushing off the innuendo as I gesture in the general direction of his back pocket where he put his phone. “Turn off your phone. Let’s try to find our way out of the Village without a map.”
He reaches for his scuffed-up, well-worn leather jacket and pulls it on over his long-sleeved white shirt. Then he retrieves my coat and helps me put it on, always the perfect gentleman. We leave Café Cluny and stand on the corner outside the bistro in the chilly air of the late February night.
“Okay, we really should just close our eyes and turn in circles a couple times and then go whatever direction we wind up pointing when we open our eyes,” he says.
“But what if we wind up in different directions?”
“You mean, what if I spin faster or slower or something?”
“We can’t really be assured that we’d spin at the same speed.”
“You’re right, you’re right, of course,” he says, stroking his chin as he goes along with our game. “I hadn’t considered the possibility of speed variations.”
“I know. You close your eyes and I’ll spin you. But I’ll close my eyes, too, and then just to be fair, you’ll be the one to say stop .”
He closes his eyes instantly. I reach up to place my hands on his shoulders. He’s taller than me—I’m guessing six foot two to my five foot seven. Still, I catch a faint scent of his aftershave, a cool, crisp smell. I’m so tempted to lean in and inhale deeply. But I resist, instead sniffing him quietly for just a second, letting him linger in my senses, letting him drift up into my mind and down into my body. For
“Pretty ladies?” I ask carefully, in an uncertain voice.
“Like you,” he answers, looking me straight in the eyes. I don’t want to look away. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to do a single thing to ruin this moment.
Then the waiter brings the bill, and the moment and whatever it was turning into is broken. Before I can reach inside my bag to retrieve the gift certificate, Matthew has already handed the waiter his credit card and sent him on his way.
“I was going to pay. I told you I had a gift certificate. The meal was supposed to be on me.”
He waves his hand in the air. “I love that you offered and you’re very generous. But we have a policy at Beat . We can’t accept any kind of gifts. So I’ll be picking up the tab for the next few months.”
I smile at him, giving him a flirty tilt of the head. “You’re presumptuous.”
“Optimistic, I like to think,” he says as the waiter returns his credit card and he tucks it back into his wallet. Then he adds, “Besides, even if we were just having dinner I’d want to pay then, too.”
“You would?”
“Of course,” he answers and his voice is stripped of all the teasing, all the toying, even all that journalistic seriousness. He seems so completely sincere in his tone, in his features, and then he does that thing again—where he reaches for my hand, clasping his on top of mine. I’m suddenly aware of the pressure on my wrist. Of the smooth inside of his palm. How his skin feels hot on my skin. I’m dying for him to slide his fingers through mine, because that would be a sure sign, right?
“Of course I would want to take you out, Jane.”
I am warm all over with his words. Does he mean them? That I’m pretty, that he’d want to have dinner even if it were just dinner? I don’t know how to read into his words, or if I should. But I want to read into them. I want to believe in this hand on mine. That he wants to be touching me, as much as I want this trace of contact with him.
“You would?” I start to say, but then I swallow the words because I can’t trust him, and I certainly can’t trust myself. “Hey, I have a totally wild idea,” I say, brushing off the innuendo as I gesture in the general direction of his back pocket where he put his phone. “Turn off your phone. Let’s try to find our way out of the Village without a map.”
He reaches for his scuffed-up, well-worn leather jacket and pulls it on over his long-sleeved white shirt. Then he retrieves my coat and helps me put it on, always the perfect gentleman. We leave Café Cluny and stand on the corner outside the bistro in the chilly air of the late February night.
“Okay, we really should just close our eyes and turn in circles a couple times and then go whatever direction we wind up pointing when we open our eyes,” he says.
“But what if we wind up in different directions?”
“You mean, what if I spin faster or slower or something?”
“We can’t really be assured that we’d spin at the same speed.”
“You’re right, you’re right, of course,” he says, stroking his chin as he goes along with our game. “I hadn’t considered the possibility of speed variations.”
“I know. You close your eyes and I’ll spin you. But I’ll close my eyes, too, and then just to be fair, you’ll be the one to say stop .”
He closes his eyes instantly. I reach up to place my hands on his shoulders. He’s taller than me—I’m guessing six foot two to my five foot seven. Still, I catch a faint scent of his aftershave, a cool, crisp smell. I’m so tempted to lean in and inhale deeply. But I resist, instead sniffing him quietly for just a second, letting him linger in my senses, letting him drift up into my mind and down into my body. For
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