Page 29 of Handle Me

“Do you think I give a shit what they think?” He leveled a fierce glare at me.

“I don’t know,” I said, deciding to be honest with him. “Regardless, it isn’t helping your media image to be seen with me.”

His eyebrows lifted, and his mouth quirked into a questioning smile. He turned and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “How is it hurting my image to be seen with a gorgeous woman?”

“Uh…” My mouth went dry as alarm bells sounded in my head. We weren’t just off track now. We were standing in a hotel, racing toward the wall, and I wasn’t sure we could stop ourselves before we hit it.

“Mr. Stone,” the maître d’ interrupted us before we crashed. “Your table is waiting.”

“Thank you.” Anders didn’t look up. He lingered, his face hovering dangerously close to mine. “Are you hungry?”

I swallowed and nodded.

He finally straightened and crooked his arm. “Let’s eat.”

I slipped my arm through his and tried to ignore how hard my heart was pounding. I wrapped my hand around his forearm instinctively, only to send my pulse racing when I felt the thick banded muscles under my fingertips.

The maître d’ led us through the main dining room, past a fireplace and a smattering of tables covered in white linen. It was midweek, so there weren’t very many diners, but we caught the attention of a few as we passed. A woman in a garish feathered fascinator gasped and elbowed her husband. He looked up, rolled his eyes, and went back to his soup. Meanwhile, she was trying to get out her camera. A waiter rushed over to the table and began asking questions—and effectively prevented her from getting a photo.

“Hmmm.”

“What?” Anders murmured.

“They seem to know how to handle celebrities around here. I wouldn’t have thought…”

“Look, we might not be royalty or footballers, but racecar drivers inspire their own crazy fans,” he said. “Monday’s caters to some of the most famous men in my field when they’re in town. I thought that was why you chose this place.”

I wished I could claim it was. It would definitely be a good excuse for why I’d dragged him into a hotel. “I picked the place with the nicest menu.”

“That makes sense, too.”

Our table was nestled in the back of the restaurant, tucked into a private corner where we wouldn’t be overheard. Judging from the relatively small space, we weren’t going to get anywhere more private unless we wanted to eat in the kitchen.

“Mademoiselle?” The maître d’ moved to pull out my chair, but Anders cleared his throat loudly. “Pardon.” He stepped to the side and allowed Anders to do it as a server appeared carrying menus.

I settled into the blue upholstered chair and accepted a small menu printed on thick, crème linen paper. Anders took the seat next to mine and looked at the waiter. “Champagne, please.”

“Would you like to see our menu, Sir, or—”

“A bottle of Dom will do,” Anders said.

I bit my lip, trying to hide my surprise as the server bustled off to get the champagne.

“I can see the smirk you’re trying to hide, boss.” He said, not looking at me, as he studied his menu. “I thought we could use a drink.”

I couldn’t disagree with that. It was just his choice that surprised me. “I didn’t expect you to order champagne. It surprised me.”

“I’m full of surprises.” He spoke in a voice so low and rough that it scraped against my already fraying nerves and sent a jolt of desire surging through me.

I turned all of my attention to the selections on the menu but found it impossible to concentrate. I couldn’t even make sense of what was on offer. I was beginning to wonder if I was wrong. Maybe I was on a date with him. Yes, I had boundaries, but Anders seemed to easily find new ways to get past them—and I kept encouraging him.

When the champagne arrived in a silver bucket a few minutes later, I was no closer to knowing what to order but more than ready for a drink. I accepted a crystal flute gratefully and took a sip. There was something comforting about Dom Pérignon. Maybe because I usually drank it at celebrations, I couldn’t help but feel happy as thousands of tiny bubbles tickled across my tongue.

“Have you chosen what you would like to eat this evening?” the server asked. “Or do you have questions about the menu?”

Anders searched my face for an answer.

“Why don’t you order?” I suggested to him. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that the menu might as well be in Latin for as far as I’d gotten looking at it.