Page 23 of Manhattan Kiss

I need to make my excuses and leave…but…but I don’t want to.

Why am I thinking about having dinner with him?

“How do you know I haven’t eaten?” I ask.

He looks up from his menu and then looks down again, like he can’t even be bothered to respond to that question. He’s so confident it’s unnerving.

At his lack of response, a ribbon of desire snakes down my spine and my nipples pebble against my dress. The thing about a backless dress is, it’s difficult to find a bra that works.

“Would you like some wine?” he asks. “The Argentinian Malbec is very good.”

“Sure,” I say. I have the day off tomorrow. A glass of wine can’t hurt.

“What would you like to eat?” Maybe I’m imagining it, but it feels like he’s looking at me as if he’s asking how many times I want to climax tonight.

My cheeks heat at his question, and I swear I catch the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.

Does he know what I’m thinking?

Does he know what he’s doing?

Does he know that all I can think about when I see him is how he looked when he was at the door of his room, bare-chested? That I wonder what it is he does to the women he sleeps with to make them scream like Ms. Gordon did? Does he know that I’m wondering how he kisses? How his skin would feel against mine?

“I don’t mind,” I say, too consumed by all the thoughts racing through my head to make a choice from a menu where everything looks delicious. I’m still not quite sure why I’m sitting here, about to have dinner with the man who spilled coffee on me. Although his apology was…surprising, and it made it easy to forgive him. “It all looks good.”

He stares at me for a beat before he says, “It all tastes good.” His gaze flickers to my lips and then back to my eyes. “I’ve eaten everything on this menu.”

Everything? His confession breaks this…tension or chemistry or whatever it is between us, and I smile. “Are you serious?”

“I eat here a lot when I’m staying at the hotel. It’s close by and good.”

“You don’t like the hotel restaurant?”

His eyebrows lift. “Room service is okay when I’m busy. But, not particularly. Don’t tell anyone.” He grins, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen him smile. It suits him.

I smile back and start to relax. Just a little. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

The waitress comes and takes our order. Mr. Black orders the steak and the chicken and I don’t know which is for me.

“Speaking of secrets,” I say. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to be having dinner with a hotel guest.”

He stares at me. “Why not?”

“I’m sure it’s probably against hotel policy.”

“Well, we can keep this between us,” he says, and our eyes lock and neither of us speak for what seems like minutes. We just sit there staring at each other like that’s what people who barely know each other do.

Eventually the waitress interrupts and tops up our wine and our water.

When she leaves, I tilt my head. “As we’re sharing secrets, can I ask you a question?”

“You want to know my secrets?” His stare is hypnotic, and I can’t look away.

I want to know all his secrets.

“Yes.” I pause. “One in particular. Where do you go on the nights you don’t spend at the hotel?”

His expression doesn’t change. “Home, of course.”