Before I can respond to that, he pulls out onto the highway and really lets the car do its thing. For a moment, my breath is caught in my throat, and I lean forward, eager to experience this. I’ve never been in a car like this. We weave betwe
en the usual LA snarl of traffic effortlessly. I swear, the cars we pass stop or slow to let us ahead, staring while we pass.
Well, except for the couple of BMWs who cut us off. But that’s BMW drivers for you.
By the time we’re slowing down on a side street, we’re both grinning, breathless. I expect John to take me to some hole-in-the-wall, the kind of place that will be open this late, not to mention open to us rolling up in our paint-and-clay-covered work clothes. It’s not exactly a work environment where you can pop out to a nice restaurant after a day of work.
But instead, John pulls up to one of the most expensive restaurants in town—one I recognize from magazine articles like “Where LA’s A-Listers Eat.” Lea’s always interested in magazines like that, and I usually make fun of her because when would girls like us ever get the chance to eat at places like that?
And yet here I am.
“We can’t go here,” I protest as we pull to a stop and John hits the button to open our doors. It feels like climbing out of a spaceship. So I stay seated and glare at him instead.
“Why, because we don’t have a reservation?” He chuckles. “Relax. They know me.” He climbs out of the car and circles around to my side, but it only makes me more determined not to step out and embarrass myself.
I cross my arms over my chest to hide the paint stains up both of my arms. “We’re not dressed for this,” I hiss. “Look at me!”
“I am.” He leans on the side of the car and grins down at me, his eyes taking me in slowly, an inch at a time like I’m a meal he’s savoring. “And you look absolutely flawless to me. I don’t see the problem.”
My face flushes with heat. But I shake my head, refusing to be swayed by his flattery. “You might find paint splatter cute, but I promise you, most people at a restaurant like this won’t.”
“I don’t care about what most think.” He reaches in to take my hand, forcibly prying my arms apart, before he tugs on them, lifting me from the car.
Reluctantly, I climb out of it next to him and shoot him another glare, an angrier one this time. I hope. But if I’m expecting that to deter him, I am sadly mistaken.
In fact, the next thing I know, he’s scooped me up into his arms.
I gasp and push at his chest. “What are you doing?”
He just squeezes me tighter against him, and I can’t deny, the feeling of his strong, muscular arms wrapped around me, cradling me against his hard chest, is reassuring. “It might not count as a threshold, but I’m pretty sure it’s tradition to carry your wife into the first place you’re going to share a meal together, isn’t it?”
I groan and roll my eyes, not that it does any good in terms of deterring him. I catch the sound of a chuckle, and spot the valet over John’s shoulder, having already accepted the keys from John, watching this whole spectacle with amusement.
In fact, quite a lot of people are watching, now that I’m looking.
John just tightens his hold on me and starts toward the stairs. “Your choice,” he says. “What do you think will be more embarrassing, walking in on your own two feet, covered in paint, or being carried in?” He is getting way too much enjoyment out of this.
“Both,” I grumble. “Both are embarrassing.” Behind us, a handful of other people on dates, all dressed to the nines, stare and point. Somewhere, a camera flashes. Great. Someone’s probably recognized John Walloway. “And everyone’s staring at us,” I hiss.
“Good,” he replies, not at all what I expect. But he sets me down, at least, at the top of the staircase, before we reach the actual hostess stand. Not that it makes any difference at this point. Half the restaurant saw us through the broad windows that look out over the street. “I want people to see us together,” he murmurs, leaning in closer, so his chin is tucked against my temple, his breath caressing my skin. “I want them to know you’re mine.”
My belly flutters at those words, my skin prickling with electricity all over again, the same way it did when he was holding me against his warm, strong chest. His hand traces down my arm until his fingers thread through mine, and I can’t help it, I squeeze his hand in response, remembering just how good this man is with his hands. All the sounds and screams he coaxed out of me, before…
My cheeks flush with heat, but luckily, we’ve reached the hostess stand now, and there’s no time to indulge the embarrassment.
John asks for a table, and the hostess doesn’t even ask about a reservation. She just flashes him a smile, the kind that tells me she knows exactly who he is. People have different smiles they use on rich, wealthy people. “Your usual table, Mr. Walloway?” the hostess asks.
“I’ve told you, you can call me John,” he says amiably, though he tugs me forward, and we trail after her through the restaurant.
“So you have, Mr. Walloway,” she responds, and it catches me off guard enough to make me chuckle. The hostess glances my way, something new in her expression now—curiosity.
I realize, too late, what all this means. John taking me to a place where he’s a regular, where people will see us, and know him.
I want them to know you’re mine.
He’s trying to make this marriage a public thing. With this huge ring on my finger, people won’t fail to start whispering about my appearance here with him.
It should irritate me. Piss me off, even. But there’s something hot about it. About how eager he is to claim me, and how he doesn’t seem to care about the consequences.
We’re barely seated before another server appears, and the bartender quickly behind him, dropping a pair of cocktails we didn’t order on our table.
“A new drink I’m testing,” the bartender explains, his eyes on John. “I’d like your opinion on it.”
“Of course.” John smiles, and the words are barely out of his mouth before an appetizer appears next.
“Compliments of the chef,” the waiter explains, before he vanishes.
We lean back in our seats, and I watch the waitstaff continue to fuss over him, my amusement growing with every passing moment. Finally, when the attention settles down, and we’re alone at our table with a heap of food and drinks we never ordered, I raise my glass. “Do you like this, then?” I ask.
“The food? You’ll love it,” he says. “It’s sublime.”
“Being treated like a king,” I correct, with a nod toward his plate, already heaped with the first course—the chef’s selection based on John’s tastes and preferences. Which, of course, they already know.
There’s a long pause, during which I flash a glance at him, wondering if I’ve struck a nerve.
But far from looking annoyed, John only seems pensive. Then he chuckles under his breath. “You know, I’m so used to being treated like this, I forget…”
I arch an eyebrow. “What, you think everybody gets this kind of treatment wherever they go?”
He shakes his head. “I just forget it’s not common, that’s all.”
“Believe me, I have never had anyone fuss over me this much,” I respond with a laugh.
But that makes his face shift into a more serious expression. “Well then, I’ll have to change that, won’t I?” he says softly. At the same time, his hand slides over to me, concealed beneath the long tablecloth. His palm comes to rest over my knee, squeezing gently, just hard enough to send a spark through my veins.
It’s enough to make me jump, that sudden contact, the unexpected touch. When I do, I’m still holding my cocktail in hand, the one I’ve yet to take a sip of, so it’s filled nearly to the brim. It splashes out across the tablecloth and my lap, making me gasp.
But John just grins, unrepentant, as I pat myself dry. “Yes. We’re definitely going to need to get you accustomed to being spoiled.”
My cheeks flush with heat again, and I manage to flash him a glare. “If it winds up with me spilling half my drinks in my lap, then I’d rather not, thanks,” I reply.
He only laughs and lifts his own glass in a toast.
When I do manage to ac
tually try a sip of the cocktail rather than throwing it across myself, it’s delicious. Light and fruity, with just a hint of alcohol… That’s the kind of thing that could prove dangerous. Not like those shots we were doing in Vegas where you feel every burning sip of the booze. No. This is a sleeper drink, the kind where you don’t even notice you’re drinking it until suddenly you’re drunk.
I set it aside, resolved not to drink too much around John. Not again. God knows what would happen this time. We’d probably wind up buying a house, or with me getting pregnant.
My cheeks flush bright red at the thought. Why am I thinking about babies all of a sudden? I have got to stop this. I must be ovulating or something.
Still, the thought leads to thinking about how that baby would get made, which leads to yet more flashbacks to the last time he and I were completely naked together, in the most expensive hotel room I’ve ever seen, but far too focused on each other to even notice our surroundings…
I clear my throat, mostly to get those memories out of my head. When I glance up, I find John watching me closely.
“Why were you in Vegas last weekend?” he asks, and I swear it’s like this man can read my mind sometimes. I wonder if he learned how to do that in business school or if my face is too easy to read.
Or maybe he just gets me, adds a voice in my head. The way nobody else I’ve ever met has seemed to…
“Oh, I…” I shrug one shoulder. “It was on a dare. Lea wanted me to let loose, have some fun for once.”
He chuckles. “Ah, so I’ll have to thank her the next time I see her.” He flashes me his own left hand, and my eyes widen. Somehow, in all the time that’s passed since that weekend, I hadn’t really noticed his ring. But there it is, a band of gold with… is that a layer of green beneath?
I frown. There’s something familiar about that… Something that brings back a flash of fuzzy memory from the weekend, something I’d all but forgotten. A pawn shop, dingy lighting, but we were too drunkenly happy to care, laughing it all off. And… “Wait, did I give that to you?” I ask.