I wasn’t hungry then.
I clear my throat. “I want to have French toast, and I was going to make it myself, since nobody serves it now.” That’s a pretty weak excuse, but now that I said it out loud, I do want French toast. Maybe the pregnancy is putting me on a say-food diet.
“It’s not a problem. The baby should have whatever it wants.” He extends a hand, just like he did at the party.
I should really say no and go up to my apartment and try to pin down my emotions. But somehow I can’t bring myself to do it. Not when Edgar looks torn, like he’s regretting asking because he thinks I’m going to turn him down anyway. But that isn’t what I want. If I’m being honest with myself, I want to spend more time with him.
When did you become so hesitant? You always went for what you wanted. That’s how you became so successful so young, remember?
I place my hand on his palm. It’s warm against my bare skin. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Edgar
The second our hands touch, an electric zing shoots from my fingers all the way to my dick. Even as a new wave of libido churns in my body, I regret asking her to dinner.
The afternoon didn’t go exactly as anticipated. It was impossible to keep my hands off her. We were in public, so of course I behaved. But every chance I got, I put my hands on her—on her elbow, her shoulder…the small of her back. All seemingly innocent and gentlemanly.
I’ve been educated since I was a small child about how to treat ladies. It was considered basic knowledge for a man to have, like how to use the right utensils. But I’ve never felt such an irresistible compulsion to touch someone before. I’m certain I’ve been more solicitous with Jo than was strictly required.
But she tugs at me. Every time I try not to think about her, obsess about her, she drags me back in.
And now we’re going to have dinner together. It would’ve been more prudent to give myself time to recover from the effect she has on me, instead of adding more time with each other.
Regardless, it’s too late now. So I close my hand around hers. Her fingers are long and slim, and her hand is so soft and feminine, much smaller than my bigger, rougher one. The difference in our size and strength elicits protective instincts in me, ones that urge me to shield her, coddle her and make sure she never lacks for anything. If I didn’t know better, I might even label the emotion—
No. This isn’t something as ludicrous and irrational as love. It’s only natural that I want to take care of the mother of my child and the woman I’m planning to marry.
I stop my car in front of the Aylster Hotel. Ivy once said its bistro, Nieve, has some of the best French toast she’s ever had.
A uniformed doorman rushes over and opens the door for Jo, while a valet takes my key. Jo smiles at him and says hello.
“Are you here to see Rinaldo? He hasn’t left yet, as far as I know,” the man says.
Rinaldo’s here? I feel my lips tighten. If I’d known, I would’ve picked a different restaurant.
“No. We’re here for dinner,” Jo answers.
I put a hand on her back. The gesture is possessive, radiating back off. I also hope the man understands he better not go bring Rinaldo from wherever he is. I don’t want to have her cousin shooting death rays at me or group-texting his relatives to let them know what we’re doing.
She waves bye, and we head toward the bistro on the first floor of the hotel.
The maître d’, resplendent in a starched white uniform, greets us. “Good evening, sir. Mada—Jo!” A huge grin splits his face.
“Hey, Dave!”
They exchange a quick hug. So the maître d’ knows her too. Hopefully he isn’t Rinaldo’s spy. What exactly is Rinaldo’s position, anyway? I should have Linda look into her whole family. I wasn’t planning on doing that because I assumed they’d want me to get to know them gradually. But I don’t like surprises. The last thing I need is to have Angel or some cousin show up at our new home as our interior decorator because I didn’t realize sooner what he does for a living.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Dave says. “You weren’t on the reservation list for today.”
“But you have a table for me, right?” She gives him a friendly wink.
“Of course! Always the best table for you. You’re like family.”
I watch the two of them. If Dave were two decades younger, I’d say he was flirting with her, but his manners are more fatherly than sexual.
“And you brought a dinner companion.” Dave smiles at me. His expression’s more affectionate than the polite hospitality that top hotels’ staff excel at. “Mr. Blackwood. This way, please.”