Page 21 of Manhattan Kiss

The corners of my mouth lift. “Maybe? Do you need some time to think about it?”

He clears his throat and looks away. Whatever connection we had has broken. Gone.

“No, I’m fine.” He takes the towels from me. Our fingers graze, and he fixes me with a stare as they do. “Thank you for these.”

I smile, then turn to walk away, trying to ignore the heat between my legs.

NINE

Aurora

After getting turned on delivering towels to Mr. Black yesterday, I went home and signed up to a couple of dating apps.

I clearly need to get laid.

Or at least I need not to be flirting with guests. Because…that’s ridiculous and a good way to get sent back to England early.

Was I flirting?

Was he?

I’m not sure. But it doesn’t matter. Now I’m waiting for my date to arrive.

Back in the UK, I would message with a guy for a week, maybe two, before I decided whether or not I wanted to meet him, but in New York, I’m diving right in. I matched with a guy yesterday and now I’m sitting in a restaurant a block away from my apartment, waiting to have dinner with him. I check the time on my phone. He’s not late, but he’s about to be. It’s one minute to eight, which is when we said we’d meet. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.

I open the menu and try to decide what I’m going to order. Something that I won’t drop down my new dress that I bought for this evening. It’s electric blue and backless. It looks nice enough from the front, but then you turn and there’s a big scooped back. It’s much sexier than anything I’d wear back at home. But I’m not at home. I’m in New York City. I’m shaking things up, including my wardrobe.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the hostess bringing someone through from the front. This must be my date.

I smile and look over—and come face to face with Deacon Black.

What is happening?

Why is he here?

He’s not my date.

Is he?

No, I’ve seen pictures of my date. He’s blond and says he’s six-one, which means he’s five-eleven. Deacon Black is at least six-three.

Mr. Black sees me as the hostess passes my table. His eyes dart from me to the empty chair opposite me and then back to my face. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t smile.

“Your usual table, Mr. Black,” the hostess says, as she shows him to a table for two a couple of tables away.

She hands him a menu and he doesn’t open it, he just places it down on the table.

This date was supposed to be distracting me from the man across the restaurant, not bring me into closer proximity to him.

But no doubt Mr. Black is waiting for his own date to arrive.

I check the time on my phone again. My date is now late. I hate that. But this isn’t Chilternshire. He’s probably navigating the traffic.

I check the app to make sure there aren’t any messages I’ve missed, but there’s nothing.

He must be on his way.

I study the menu like I’m going to be tested on it tomorrow. I just don’t want to look up. I don’t want to get caught in Mr. Black’s stare.