He points to a small bowl off to the side I hadn’t noticed due to my waffle blinders. At this point, I’m drooling out of the corner of my mouth. I’m sure in some alternate universe, Brooke 1,342 stands up, flips the table over, and skips all the way home…but in this life, I swallow my pride right before dipping my knife into the brown sugar butter and drizzling syrup all over my plate.
I’m ashamed, and I do not meet his eyes as I fork my first bite into my mouth. It is, of course, a perfect combination of chicken and waffle and butter and syrup—all the main food groups.
It’s heaven on earth.
“Oh my god,” I moan before realizing what I’m doing.
I whip my gaze to James, and thankfully he pretends like he doesn’t hear me—that is, until I notice the little smirk he’s trying to hide behind his napkin as he wipes his mouth.
I ignore him, and just to be sure the first bite wasn’t a fluke, I take another.
My plate is cleared before James has finished half of his. I dab my mouth like a proper lady and then recline against the booth.
I watch him eat, studying the meticulous way he loads his fork. One bite of waffle, one bite of chicken, one small dab of brown sugar butter—if all the parts aren’t there, he doesn’t eat it.
I smile to myself and tuck away that bit of information.
“This is my way of apologizing,” he says, pulling us out of what could now be described as pleasant silence. Funny how that happens.
I glance up to find him studying me. Our eyes lock for one heated moment, and then he looks back down at his food.
“It doesn’t come naturally to me,” he continues.
“I would have never guessed,” I tease.
“It’s something I want to work on.”
I smirk. “No time like the present.”
He laughs, sets his fork down, and then leans back, hooking his elbow on the back of the booth. Reclined like that, he looks every bit the confident businessman, aloof and unattainable. “You’re right.”
I wait, and he continues, “I owe you an apology.”
I squint as if I’m thinking really hard. “Yeah, I still don’t think those are quite the words I’m looking for.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What was that?”
He clears his throat then leans forward like he’s about to divulge state secrets. “I’m sorry.”
The table seems too small now with him leaning toward me. While I probably smell like I just dipped myself in brown sugar butter, James smells like his woodsy cologne. I’m hyperaware of that scent and the way our legs are all but twined underneath the table.
“I accept your apology, under one condition.”
My smile is wicked and from the gleam in his eye, I can tell he likes it.
“What’s that?”
I pick up my fork and smirk. “I want another one of these. No sharing.”
…
After dinner, we don’t talk about where we’re headed next, but I think he’s taking me home. We head north on Lamar, away from downtown. In 10 minutes, he’ll drop me off outside the co-op and this weird exchange will be over. I wanted an apology from him, and now I have it. Beyond that, I don’t think there’s any reason for James to see me again. I don’t think we’re friends. He wanted me to be a pawn in his game, and I fulfilled my duty. Sure, I’ve wondered what would have happened that night if Celeste hadn’t slipped something into my drink. James and I might have enjoyed the party, and maybe at some point he would have admitted to inviting me to attend for reasons that didn’t include buttering up a potential hire.
Beyond a few smoldering glances and the compliment paid to me before the party, James hasn’t made it clear that he even sees me as an attractive woman. By now, most other guys would have made their feelings toward me a bit more obvious, but it seems James does more of his thinking above the belt.
I wonder if the age difference is too much for him. I tried to find information about his last girlfriend, the one Ellie said had a drug problem, but it didn’t look like they were anything serious. She was only pictured alongside him at one or two events before she reportedly checked herself into Passages Malibu, the luxury rehab center where all the celebrities pretend to get their life in order. I don’t get the feeling he’s lovesick over her.
He presses the brake and I glance over. His eyes meets mine, and there’s something there—questions in his gaze that mimic my own. I think he’s going to ask me something, but instead, he turns his attention back to the road.
So, I take matters into my own hands.
“Are you dating anyone right now?”
He accelerates.
“Of course not. I wouldn’t have taken you to that party if I was.”