This made him chuckle. A deep, rich sound that sent vibrations throughout my body. “I’m still glad you’re back.”
Oh. Well. Oh. I didn’t know what to say to that. I was ready for a fight of words. The problem with him being right here, so easy to find, was that I hadn’t prepared what I would say to him. I hadn’t expected to find him like this. “You have a pregnant girlfriend” was what my mouth decided to blurt out next. Couldn’t trust my mouth. It always said exactly what it was thinking. It had no filter, and it hadn’t served me well in my life. I had made many enemies by saying exactly what I was thinking at the moment. It wasn’t fair, really, that people found it hard to forgive me for saying things without thinking. At least they never had to wonder what I thought. The rest of the world just lied a lot. They didn’t share their feelings and sucked up things that eventually made them bitter.
He looked almost remorseful. “I don’t. She was a one-night stand. Never a girlfriend. We got to know each other through mutual acquaintances and then one night, over too many drinks, slept together. She wasn’t on birth control, and the condom broke. Last week, she miscarried the baby.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Can I take you to dinner? Or did you already have other plans?” he asked, not waiting for me to respond.
I was letting the fact that he didn’t have a girlfriend or a baby on the way sink in. I nodded. “I’d like that.”
He smiled again. “So you were all dressed up for nothing?”
I glanced down at myself, remembering that I was, in fact, going to a show in hopes of finding his baby momma. I wasn’t admitting that, though. “Uh, yes, I guess I was.”
He held out his arm, and I slid my hand into the crook of his elbow. “Good. I’d hate to make you cancel your plans. But I would.”
The finality and power in his tone should have pissed me off. He was so bossy and sure of himself. But instead, it excited me. I was insane.
The back corner booth was shaped like a U and tucked away from the rest of the busy restaurant. When we had walked in, the hostess hadn’t even asked Gannon how many or where he’d like to be seated. She had looked up at him as if she knew him and smiled, then grabbed two menus and led us back to the table. He must live in Las Vegas part of the time. Those were questions I had never asked him before. Things I wanted to know.
“You come here often?” I asked, when the hostess had walked away, assuring us that our server, Greg, would be right with us.
He shrugged. “Occasionally.” He wasn’t much of a sharer. I wanted to know more about the man who came to me in my dreams and messed up my head for all other men.
“Do you live in Las Vegas? Or near here?” I asked, needing more.
“No” was all he said.
I felt like growling in frustration. Normal people would follow that up with where they did live. This was like pulling teeth. “So where do you live?” I asked, this time more pointedly, since that was what this was going to require.
“Different places. Depending on my job at the time.”
Was he kidding me? Was this a test to get me to pitch a damn fit? Sighing in defeat, I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest. “Fine. You don’t want to tell me about yourself. I’ll just sit here quietly and leave you alone.”
His large, strong hand was on my thigh instantly, holding it in a firm, almost painful grip.
I held my breath, unsure what button I had pushed but waiting to see if it was a sexual one or a truly angry one, where he would beat the hell out of me and then toss me into a ditch on the side of the road. With this man, I couldn’t be sure. Hell, I didn’t even know where he lived.
“Don’t sass me with that gorgeous fucking mouth.” His voice was laced with a warning and temptation all at once.
I should have come back at him with more sass than he could handle, but I wasn’t sure if it was safe to do that. And in an odd way, I wanted to please him. So I nodded and replied. “Yes, sir.”
Before I could be disgusted with myself over my submissive response, he began caressing the thigh he’d probably bruised. “That’s better,” he whispered, then leaned in to claim my mouth in a kiss. Right there in front of the whole damn place. Well, we were kind of hidden, but Greg the server could walk up at any time to witness our make-out session.
He broke the kiss just as quickly as he had initiated it and leaned back, his hand still on my thigh as if he owned it and wanted to remind me of it.
A tall, lanky guy with bright orange hair and lots of freckles appeared. It must be Greg. He seemed to be flushed red, and I wondered if he had attempted to approach us seconds before when our lips had been passionately locked. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, so I was guessing that was the case. I hoped so, because otherwise, it would be a shame if his skin was always so red. He already had all those freckles and that horrible orange hair. A good stylist could fix that and give him more of an auburn color that would at least make the freckles less offensive.
“Good evening. My name is Greg, and I’ll be your server tonight. What can I get you to drink?” He sounded nervous.
“A bottle of 1990 Chave Hermitage,” Gannon ordered, as if sure that this place would have such an unknown French wine in the States. It also happened to be my favorite red wine.
Greg went about filling our water glasses while I stared at Gannon, trying to decide if this was a joke. “Yes, sir,” Greg responded, and he walked away.
Oh. Well. Oh. I didn’t know what to say to that. I was ready for a fight of words. The problem with him being right here, so easy to find, was that I hadn’t prepared what I would say to him. I hadn’t expected to find him like this. “You have a pregnant girlfriend” was what my mouth decided to blurt out next. Couldn’t trust my mouth. It always said exactly what it was thinking. It had no filter, and it hadn’t served me well in my life. I had made many enemies by saying exactly what I was thinking at the moment. It wasn’t fair, really, that people found it hard to forgive me for saying things without thinking. At least they never had to wonder what I thought. The rest of the world just lied a lot. They didn’t share their feelings and sucked up things that eventually made them bitter.
He looked almost remorseful. “I don’t. She was a one-night stand. Never a girlfriend. We got to know each other through mutual acquaintances and then one night, over too many drinks, slept together. She wasn’t on birth control, and the condom broke. Last week, she miscarried the baby.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Can I take you to dinner? Or did you already have other plans?” he asked, not waiting for me to respond.
I was letting the fact that he didn’t have a girlfriend or a baby on the way sink in. I nodded. “I’d like that.”
He smiled again. “So you were all dressed up for nothing?”
I glanced down at myself, remembering that I was, in fact, going to a show in hopes of finding his baby momma. I wasn’t admitting that, though. “Uh, yes, I guess I was.”
He held out his arm, and I slid my hand into the crook of his elbow. “Good. I’d hate to make you cancel your plans. But I would.”
The finality and power in his tone should have pissed me off. He was so bossy and sure of himself. But instead, it excited me. I was insane.
The back corner booth was shaped like a U and tucked away from the rest of the busy restaurant. When we had walked in, the hostess hadn’t even asked Gannon how many or where he’d like to be seated. She had looked up at him as if she knew him and smiled, then grabbed two menus and led us back to the table. He must live in Las Vegas part of the time. Those were questions I had never asked him before. Things I wanted to know.
“You come here often?” I asked, when the hostess had walked away, assuring us that our server, Greg, would be right with us.
He shrugged. “Occasionally.” He wasn’t much of a sharer. I wanted to know more about the man who came to me in my dreams and messed up my head for all other men.
“Do you live in Las Vegas? Or near here?” I asked, needing more.
“No” was all he said.
I felt like growling in frustration. Normal people would follow that up with where they did live. This was like pulling teeth. “So where do you live?” I asked, this time more pointedly, since that was what this was going to require.
“Different places. Depending on my job at the time.”
Was he kidding me? Was this a test to get me to pitch a damn fit? Sighing in defeat, I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest. “Fine. You don’t want to tell me about yourself. I’ll just sit here quietly and leave you alone.”
His large, strong hand was on my thigh instantly, holding it in a firm, almost painful grip.
I held my breath, unsure what button I had pushed but waiting to see if it was a sexual one or a truly angry one, where he would beat the hell out of me and then toss me into a ditch on the side of the road. With this man, I couldn’t be sure. Hell, I didn’t even know where he lived.
“Don’t sass me with that gorgeous fucking mouth.” His voice was laced with a warning and temptation all at once.
I should have come back at him with more sass than he could handle, but I wasn’t sure if it was safe to do that. And in an odd way, I wanted to please him. So I nodded and replied. “Yes, sir.”
Before I could be disgusted with myself over my submissive response, he began caressing the thigh he’d probably bruised. “That’s better,” he whispered, then leaned in to claim my mouth in a kiss. Right there in front of the whole damn place. Well, we were kind of hidden, but Greg the server could walk up at any time to witness our make-out session.
He broke the kiss just as quickly as he had initiated it and leaned back, his hand still on my thigh as if he owned it and wanted to remind me of it.
A tall, lanky guy with bright orange hair and lots of freckles appeared. It must be Greg. He seemed to be flushed red, and I wondered if he had attempted to approach us seconds before when our lips had been passionately locked. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, so I was guessing that was the case. I hoped so, because otherwise, it would be a shame if his skin was always so red. He already had all those freckles and that horrible orange hair. A good stylist could fix that and give him more of an auburn color that would at least make the freckles less offensive.
“Good evening. My name is Greg, and I’ll be your server tonight. What can I get you to drink?” He sounded nervous.
“A bottle of 1990 Chave Hermitage,” Gannon ordered, as if sure that this place would have such an unknown French wine in the States. It also happened to be my favorite red wine.
Greg went about filling our water glasses while I stared at Gannon, trying to decide if this was a joke. “Yes, sir,” Greg responded, and he walked away.
