Page 39 of Third Strike Smitten

"I'm a bold guy."

"Bold," she repeats. "Right. Is that what we're calling it?"

"What would you call it?"

She considers this for a moment, turning back to the window. "Delusional optimism."

"That's two words."

"And here I thought you were a pitcher, not an English teacher."

I laugh, and it surprises me a little. The easy way it comes out. No performance in it. No audience. Just the two of us in the dark cab of Diane with the city sliding past the windows and Isla Fallon in a green dress making fun of me in that particular way she has that somehow never actually feels like an insult.

I pull up to the restaurant ten minutes later and hand the keys to the valet before coming around to open her door. When she steps out and looks up at the building, I watch her face carefully.

Her lips part. "Killian."

Ah hell. Her lips parted like they are and hearing her say my name all breathy and shit makes me really regret that no sex rule she insisted on. "Told you you'd like it."

She looks back at the restaurant, and I watch the soft glow of the entrance lighting catch the golden highlights in her hair. "It's Bellamy's," she says quietly.

"Yeah."

"Killian, this place has a three-month waitlist."

"I know."

She turns to look at me again, and there's something different in her expression now. Something a little more careful. "How did you get a reservation?"

I shrug, sliding my hands into my jacket pockets. "I called in a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

"The kind where I know a guy who knows a guy."

"That's not an answer."

"No," I agree. "But it's what you're getting. You ready?” I offer her my hand and she immediately looks down at it like it’s a foreign object that might bite her if she touches it. I watch as she swallows and then looks back up at me, her round eyes appearing suddenly nervous. “It’s just my hand, Coach,” I say softly, leaning into her so I can whisper in her ear. “And it’s just dinner.”

“Right.” She nods. “Yeah. I’m good.” She places her hand in mine and for the first time in my entire adult life, a peculiar warm fuzzy feeling shoots through my chest as I wrap my hand around her soft fingers.

“Good.” I take a breath and then, right before we walk to the door, tell her, “You really do look beautiful tonight, by the way.”

She doesn’t have the chance to be sarcastic or respond in any way because the maître d' greets us at the door and leads us through the main dining room toward the table I reserved two days ago. I may have called in a big favor. I may have also specifically requested the table near the window that overlooks the river, because if rumors are going to swirl—and they will, they already are—I want everyone who sees us to see me treating her right.

Isla takes it all in as we walk. The low lighting. The white tablecloths. The kind of quiet that costs money. I watch her eyes dart around the room and I find myself more interested in her reaction than in anything else happening in this restaurant.

I pull out her chair for her. She raises an eyebrow but sits down without comment, as she continues to scan the restaurant.

"Impressive," she says as the maître d' hands us our menus. "I've never been here before."

"First time for everything," I reply, settling into my seat across from her. We take a moment to order drinks—whiskey for me, wine for her—and then order our meals before easily slipping into conversation.

"So, is this how you normally impress women? Fancy restaurants and smooth lines?"

Okay maybe not so easy.

I laugh, shaking my head. "Actually, no. I usually don't have to try this hard."