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“As many as he recommends for three people.”
The executive chef at Rochelle’s is one of the best chefs in the city. I always leave it up to him. She nods and walks away.
I try to listen to Marc as he starts going on about all of the hot women he’s come across in the city, but I can’t stop glancing at the archway that leads to the restaurant’s entrance.
This is silly. She’s on her way. It’s just traffic.
“How long have you been dating?”
Caught daydreaming, I return my attention to Marc. For a few minutes anyway, until a flash of red catches the corner of my eye. A lump forms in my throat, and I can’t talk or even think. She’s fucking incredible.
Chari walks toward us, a red cocktail dress hugging every curve. I stand, heartbeat in my ears, and try not to immediately ravage her as she walks up to me. Instead, I give her a quick kiss on the cheek as the scent of vanilla with a hint of coconut wafts by. Chari sits next to me, and I introduce her to Marc.
Who doesn’t hide his appreciation for my girlfriend.
Concealing my irritation, I ask Chari about her drive in.
“It was totally fine until I came through the tunnel. You’d swear it’s rush hour or something.”
“You left your car with the valet?”
She nods. “I did.”
The waitress comes to take Chari’s drink order. She looks at our drinks and orders an Angel Pale Ale. I try not to smile. And she worried about acclimating to my life? She’s a natural.
“So, tell me, Marc”—Chari uses his first name, deliberately I’m sure—“what exactly does a wholesale beer distributor do?”
Marc is all too happy to tell Chari about his business. How he grew up in it, what he’s going to change now that he’s in charge, and . . . I stop listening. My leg edges ever so slightly toward Chari, and I reach down with my right hand.
She doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, she’s acting so interested in Marc’s relentlessly boring description of sales channels, the green-eyed monster bites. I know what she’s doing, but I also hate his appreciative gaze.
From above the table, my shoulder doesn’t appear to move. Below it, my hand grabs the hem of her dress and pulls upward. When her voice catches, I try not to smile.
“Fascinating,” Chari says.
Our eyes meet.
The only thing fascinating at this dinner table is how clueless Marc is that Chari is merely humoring him.
Keep looking at me like that, I warn her with my eyes,and this pre-sex dance won’t last beyond the first course.
In fact, as we give our orders, I make a decision.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I say, my hand already missing the feel of her after I pull it away from her leg.
I have an idea . . .
28
Chari
When Enzo comes back, he has a strange look on his face. I’d assumed he’d excused himself to go to the men’s room, but now I’m not so sure. Finally, after what seems like a lifetime of entertaining our pompous dinner companion, Enzo asks for the check.
“I’m glad you were able to avoid your team’s affliction and meet us,” Enzo says.
He almost sounds as if he means it, which is impossible. Marc Walden is an insufferable braggart. I suspect all of his big talk is a way of compensating for his inability to run the company his father so deftly managed. But I’ve managed to keep things friendly, and so has Enzo—friendly and professional, except for the way he’s been touching me under the table. Except for the way his jaw twitches ever so slightly when his companion flirts with me.
As we prepare to leave, I start fantasizing about Enzo’s hands all over me, the feel of him inside me . . .
