She’ll find out just how smooth. Soon enough.
The games have only just begun.
6
Abby
“Keep it professional, Abby, you don’t want to screw this up.”
“Of course I’ll keep it professional,” I tell Cheryl, my cell phone pressed against my ear. “You know me.”
“Yeah, I know you… That’s why I’m telling you this,” she replies with a sigh, and I can picture the look of exasperation she must have on her face right now. God bless her; I’m not exactly the easiest writer (or person, for that matter) to manage.
“Don’t worry, Cheryl, I promise I won’t screw this up.” Although I can’t promise if I won’t allow Aidan to, ahem, screw me. I mean, it’s not like I’m being proactive about it, but how do I even stop my brain from thinking about it? This guy is the consummate fantasy material. All alone but wet? He’s the perfect man candy; just close your eyes and let your mind (and fingers) do the rest. No wonder he used to be the go-to guy for romance covers. Still, it’s surprising that he managed to keep working in the industry for so long; he burned so many bridges you’d think he was fighting in Vietnam.
“I’m there,” I tell her, looking out the window of my Uber and seeing the low-key entrance to Del Posto, the restaurant we agreed on for today’s meeting.
“Okay, Abby. Good luck, and don’t forget to--”
“Act professional, I know, I know. Bye, Cheryl,” I finish off, ending the call and stuffing my cellphone back into my purse. I mouth a quick thank you at the driver, and get out of the car as soon as it halts to stop.
“You’re a punctual one, aren’t you?” I hear someone say, and I turn on my heels to meet Aidan’s gaze. He’s getting out of a cab, and he looks like someone cut him out of a magazine cover; he’s wearing a tailored suit, all black, and there’s that panty-dropper smile on his lips.
“Look who’s talking,” I shoot right back, flashing him a smile of my own. To be honest, I’m really not that punctual, and the fact that I got here on time is a small miracle. But he doesn’t need to know that; professionals are never late, are they?
“Shall we?” he asks me, offering me his arm. I take it, feeling as if I’m being led by a gentleman from the 20s instead of a untamable bad boy; I guess there’s more to Aidan than meets the eye.
We walk inside Del Posto arm-in-arm, and the host greets us merrily and asks for our names. After checking the reservation list, she then hands us off to a middle-aged gangly waiter with a slight Italian accent.
“Please, follow me to the Gattinara,” he tells us with a smile wider than the host’s, and we follow after him.
I’m about to ask Aidan what the hell is a Gattinara, but then I purse my lips and stop the words from coming out. He’s acting as if it’s an obvious thing, and I don’t want to sound uncultured. The waiter leads us down a set of stairs, and then takes a turn to what looks like an upscale wine cellar. In the middle of the room there’s a small round table covered with a white cloth, and right in the center is a chandelier with five lit candles. Are we going to dine here? This looks expensive, especially now that I’m a writer with a dwindling ban
k account.
“Enjoy your dinner,” the waitress says, and then nods respectfully before disappearing so fast you’d think he just vanished in thin air.
We take our seat, and I look around the room, realizing that this is a private dining area. How the hell am I going to afford this? Besides, what the hell is a Gattinawhatever? I give up. “What’s a Gattina -- you know, what he said, what is it?”
“The Gattinara? It’s the Del Posto’s private dining room,” he says, waving his hand at the space around us.
“Hmm, it looks expensive,” I force myself to say. I don’t want him to see me as a cheap skate, but I really can’t afford to blow my savings on expensive dinners.
“It is expensive,” he agrees, pushing the menu to the side as if he already knows what’s in there. “But don’t worry about it, a friend of mine working here owes me a favor and… here we are,” he adds, looking me straight in the eyes. The words keep on coming out of his mouth, but I barely hear what he’s saying. I’m just staring at him, watching the way his lips move and imagining how it’d feel to kiss him.
The next ten minutes are a struggle; Aidan’s so distracting that I can’t even make small talk. Every time our eyes meet I start to undress him mentally, and wondering how he must look naked and up close. I went looking for him online after I got home last night and, oh my, no wonder he was crowned the king of romance covers. His body screams sex, and the filthy crazy kind of sex at that, not the ‘turn off the lights and cover me with the sheets’ kind.
By the time the waiter comes with the food and a bottle of red wine, I’m actually surprised I haven’t started drooling. I’m trying to hide how hard my heart is racing, but if I don’t regain my composure he’s going to notice soon.
“Thank you,” I tell the waiter as he finishes pouring the wine into both of our glasses and then I breath in deeply. I take a sip of the wine and, changing gears, I get ready for business; maybe that’ll help take my mind out of the gutter. “So, Aidan, any ideas for what our project should be about?”
“I thought you were the one with the bright ideas,” he teases me, his smart eyes making me feel as if there’s a dagger in my heart.
“You’re right,” I say without thinking, “and I actually have already started to think about a possible story. I just wanted to know if you have any ideas of your own.”
“Oh, I have a lot of ideas, and I think they’d all work very well between the covers of a romance novel… or between any kind of covers,” he says with that deep, seductive voice of his, and I lick my lips as I feel a growing wetness between my thighs. I’m doing my best to act professional here, but it’s getting harder by the minute.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about changing my writing style. I think my books are sexy, but there’s something missing … I’m thinking we should focus on what women love the most,” I tell him, trying to ignore the innuendo in his words.