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Placing his hand lightly on the small of my back, he guides me toward his car and opens the door. He takes my hand in his and helps me into the low, tan leather seat before closing the door behind me.
My gaze wanders the carpet and headliner, noting that they perfectly match the ruby red exterior. The same scarlet shade is scattered throughout the detailing in the leather stitching and the Aston Martin logo embroidered into the headrests.
This thing must cost a fortune.
“Seatbelt, darling,” he instructs, taking his seat behind the wheel, and I immediately follow his direction.
With that fucking accent, he could tell me to hop on one leg and bark like a dog, and I’d probably listen.
“I didn’t realize you were Irish.” The words awkwardly fall from my lips as I try to make conversation.
Why would I realize? I don’t know shit about him.
“What, I’m Irish? What gave me away?” He smirks. “Is it the hair?”
A laugh rattles from me, and I roll my eyes as I respond, “Yes. Definitely the hair.”
Conversation grows quiet as he drives us uptown, his gaze repeatedly wandering between me and the road. Normally, I have no issue carrying the conversation on a first date, but fuck if this man doesn’t make me nervous as hell.
Driving down Fifth Avenue, he flips on the blinker and pulls up to the curb for the valet. I quickly note that he has pulled to a stop at The Peninsula, one of the most luxurious hotels in Midtown.
Crossing my arms, I sass, “Bringing me to a hotel is pretty presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.” His response is deep and flirtatious as he slides from the car.
He rounds it quickly, reaching my door before the valet. Pulling it open, he gingerly takes my hand to help me from the car. Sliding out and to my feet, I find myself mere inches from him. So close that I can’t help breathing in the faint, woodsy scent of his cologne.
He leans down, completely closing the distance between us to push the car door shut behind me. Heat flushes my skin as his warm breath blows against my cheek.
Slowly stepping behind me, he places his hand firmly on the small of my back and whispers, “Quite presumptuous to assume I brought you here to fuck you instead of eat.”
CHAPTER TEN
TRISTAN
While I would happily take her upstairs to begin a night thoroughly tasting every inch of her, I lead Layla toward the elevators and press the button to take us to Pen Top. My fingers lingering against her back, I share, “I quite enjoy the rooftop lounge here. It has a remarkable view. Have you been?”
Though I highly doubt I’ll be able to pull my eyes from her enough to actually enjoy it.
The elevator dings, announcing our arrival at the rooftop. I press my palm to her spine as doors open, and she lets out a tiny gasp, leaving me wondering if it’s from my hand on her bare skin or the sprawling skyline view.
“This is magnificent,” she quietly proclaims as I usher her past the line of waiting patrons to the hostess.
“Good evening, Mr. Evans,” the cute, blonde hostess greets me. Her eyes rake over Layla, and her usually bubbly tone becomes slightly curt. “Just the two of you this evening?”
“Yes,” I confirm, stealing a glance of Layla.
Pulling her eyes from my date, she pulls together her professional decorum. “Please, follow me.”
“I’m gathering you come here quite often,” Layla surmises. “But based on your admirer’s reaction, I’m assuming it is not often with a date.”
Our waiter approaches the table before I have a chance to respond. I take the liberty of ordering a bottle of Jameson and a small assortment of hors d'oeuvres.
“I’m generally alone or with my brothers.”
“Do you have a lot of them?” she inquires, continuing to make small talk as the waiter brings our glasses and the bottle of whiskey to our table.
“Four,” I answer as I nod at the waiter, signaling for him to leave. Pouring us each a glass, I continue, “Declan, my older brother, would be the reason you wanted to call me an asshole.”
