I don’t have any intention of answering that. “Who gave you the idea you’re so irresistible I’m going to say yes?” I pointedly stare at our intertwined fingers. His large, tanned hand holds my smaller, paler one. I can’t tear my gaze away from the contrast or how protected he makes me feel.
It’s weird and inexplicable. I worry I can’t trust my instincts anymore, but I really like him, and I don’t want to say no.
“Come on. It’s just a meal. I haven’t eaten yet this morning. How about you?”
My traitorous stomach chooses that moment to grumble loudly.
He laughs and I blush.
“Guess that answers that. Come on. I want pancakes.”
I sputter and find myself walking along with him. Of course my hand is still in his warmer one, and I like the sensation. Uh oh. What happened to swearing off guys? And this is no guy. He’s a man. All man.
But he doesn’t know about the sex tape or he’d be leering at me the way the rest of them do. And he seems genuinely interested in me. And sweet, if you don’t count last night’s incident. And even that was nice in a protective kind of way.
“So how much more of school do you have left?” he asks.
“Just this last semester.”
“What’s your major?”
“Business,” I say. “But that’s not my life plan.”
“No? What is?” He sounds genuinely interested.
I smile. “I have a minor in culinary arts.” This I slipped past my parents. To be a sous chef, I need courses in nutrition, food safety and sanitation, and supervisory management. Add in the business classes there and I’m golden. “I want to be a chef.” Saying the words out loud makes my goals that much more real to me.
“Really? Sounds great,” he says.
He seems interested, so I continue. “When I graduate, I need to find full-time work for an accredited supervising chef, and that’s no easy task. There’s one in the tri-state area, at The Westchester Country Club. It’s insanely exclusive, and they’re not currently looking.”
He chokes, and I pause, waiting for him to catch his breath. “Are you okay?”
He takes a long sip of water and nods. “I’m fine. Go on.”
“Well, even if they were looking for an apprentice for their chef, I can’t see why they’d hire me over someone who’s already had experience in big kitchens.
“You never know.” He glances at me, warmth in his gaze. I want to think I see approval too, and my body heats up in the best kind of way. “Things turn up when you least expect it.”
I shrug. “I hope so. Either way, I’ll keep working my way up. I plan to get certified.”
He nods in understanding. “So you’re majoring in business because…”
I glance away. Admitting the truth minimizes my desires and shows I’m still too young. I raise my chin a notch. “My parents wouldn’t pay for culinary school, which would have sped up the process and enabled me to find the right jobs more easily. I figure if I want to own my own restaurant one day, I need the background.”
He nods. “Solid plan. I like to cook too.”
I’m surprised. And pleased we have something in common.
“We’re here,” he says before I can reply.
He stops in front of a typical city diner, holds open the door, and I step inside. The place is small, booths along one side, each with seating for two total, tables for four along the middle, and more single booths. Behind the counter, delicious-looking pastries tempt me.
He chooses one of the booths in the back, and we settle in. He sits across from me, but the booth is small, and our knees touch beneath the table. I shiver unexpectedly.
Before we can begin talking again, a waitress approaches. “Coffee?” she asks in a cigarette-roughened voice.
“Yes, please.” I wake up craving caffeine.
“Me too.”
She pours into the waiting cups and disappears.
“So why a chef?” He takes a sip of his coffee. I notice he drinks it black.
I add milk and one sugar to mine. “Well … if I wanted to eat, I needed to learn to cook. My parents were always out at the country club or at business dinners. Mom didn’t worry much about me. There was always cereal in the cabinets but…” I shake my head. Whenever I speak of my childhood, I have to do it over a painful lump in my throat.
He stares at me through hooded eyes. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. Poor little rich girl. I push on. “Anyway, I watched cooking shows. And I learned.” I draw a deep breath. “I’m good at it, and I love cooking. Especially delicious breakfast foods. You?” I don’t want to talk about me. I’d rather learn about him.
“I want to eat, so I learned to cook. Like you, I enjoy it.”
I grin. “That’s cool,” I say. “So what do you do for a living?”
“I dabble.”
I sip my coffee, unsatisfied with his answer. “What does that mean exactly?”
“I’m in business … and I have my PI license, and I’m good at digging up information.” A shrug. “People hire me for this and that.”
“And you make a living that way?” I cringe. I was raised better than to blurt out what’s on my mind.
Instead of being annoyed, he bursts out laughing. “Yes, Princess, I do. You’d be amazed the things people will pay to find out.”
“Huh.” I lift my coffee and take another nice long sip of caffeine. Then another.
Closing my eyes, I lean back and enjoy the burnt brew because I know, no matter how lousy the taste, the lovely caffeine will soon begin to flow through my veins. I moan softly at the thought.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?” I ask as my eyelids snap open.
“Make sex noises in public. You do and you’ll find yourself against the nearest bathroom wall.” He’s staring at me, those green eyes darkened with need.
Oh. My. God. He wants me.
My mouth runs dry. I mean, he’s been keeping an eye on me at night, he saved me, saw me home safely, and showed up again this morning. Any normal girl would have caught on quickly. I’m not normal. Never have been.
And there’s that naiveté showing itself again. It’s not that I thought he was just being friendly, and I knew there was attraction between us, but this. It’s a burning heat the likes of which I’ve never experienced.
The boys I’ve been with were just that. Boys. He’s all man, from the darkened stubble on his handsome face to the muscles bulging in his forearms. This morning I catch sight of a tattoo I didn’t notice in the dark last night.