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By the time my team and I were ready to call it a day, my anxiety was clawing at me. So instead of dwelling on whether or not Chase Moore was upset with me, I made plans to relax in bed, in my sweats, listening to theatrical soundtracks of Bruce and Arnold quipping one-liners amid explosions of mass proportions.
Wine and action movies. This girl’s dream night in.
“Have a productive day?”
My answer comes a bit slow, because most of my brain power is occupied with eyeing his tall body, clad in gray trousers and a light blue plaid, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Forearm porn. It’s a thing. I swear.
“Um, yes. Yes, I did.” I gesture to the car. “What’s this?”
“One of your perks. Much better than a cab.”
I nod, studiously ignoring his forearms. “Thank you. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” I step toward the rear door of the car.
“Actually, more like two hours.”
I pause, my hand on the handle, which is seriously close to his ass as he’s still leaning against the car. “Excuse me?”
“I managed to stop Chris and Ben on their way out, too. Alice can’t make it, some pre-established plan.” He finally pushes off from the car and turns to open my door, grazing my hand in the process. “You’ll be picked up in two hours for dinner at Winston’s.” His free hand gestures to the top of Moore’s. “The restaurant on the top floor. Chris and Ben too.”
I stare up at the imposing building, ignoring the heat from where he touched my hand. Finally, I get my shit together and step back. “That’s nice and all, but no need.”
“I insist. Dinner is the perfect place to catch me up on what you and your team came up with today. Plus, George told me you didn’t have time to visit the restaurants during his tour yesterday.”
That makes sense. It really does. But I can’t help but push back. “I can just email you the notes we’ve made and see Winston’s another time.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in that easy way he has, and this time when his hand reaches out to touch mine, it’s deliberate. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to spend time with me, Campbell?”
The way he says my name sounds like a prayer. I haven’t been too good about praying to baby Jesus lately, but right now, with Chase’s hand on me and my name on his lips, my brain is screaming Hallelujah.
“No, it isn’t that. I…”
“Then what is it?”
I haven’t taken my eyes off him, and I swear he hasn’t moved, but he suddenly seems so much closer now, his question too probing. The fact that I so desperately want to say yes makes me wary.
“Ben and Chris are coming?”
He nods.
Disappointment flutters, and I squash it down. I don’t need any more alone time with Chase Moore. I’ve had too much as it is. Plus, he’s correct. I haven’t yet seen the various restaurants Moore’s runs, and Winston’s is supposed to be the most well-known.
Resolute, I clear my throat and pull back from his touch. “Dinner will be fine, Mr. Moore. I’ll be ready in two hours.” I pivot around him, avoiding eye contact as I slide into the cool leather seat. I lean forward to give the driver my hotel’s address, not trusting myself to look Chase’s way. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling Chase’s amused smile through the tinted windows.
I’m in trouble.
9
BELL
When I think Winston, I think Churchill. Which doesn’t inspire the appetite. However, Winston’s at Moore’s is a whole different story.
Large golden chandeliers, dripping in crystal, hang from the ceiling. No linen tablecloths, just polished, well-worn wooden tables, dressed with bone-white china and crystal goblets. The old parquet floor patina glows under the dim lighting, with candles in honest-to-god brass candelabras illuminating the table. Between the decor and the breathtaking view of the city from the panoramic windows, it’s a magical place.
Oddly, it’s not crowded. Now, or when we sat down to dinner two hours ago.
When I mention the lack of patrons to Chase as the waiter clears our plates away, he simply says, “That’s why you’re here.”
