* * *
The fusion Japanese restaurant is right on the water. Ocean and blue sky are the backdrop to the shady patio.
We're the only people out here. It's midafternoon, that time between lunch and dinner. A breeze blows over my shoulders. I shiver and hug my arms to my chest. Miles slides his leather jacket off his arms and drapes it over my shoulders.
A perfect gentleman.
My heartbeat picks up. I'm sure I'm getting the wrong idea again. I'm just another girl in a long list of Miles's playthings.
I push my concerns aside. It's not every day I'm wined and dined—well, dined, at least—by a hot rock star. And it's certainly not every day he makes me come more times than I can count.
Miles watches me open the menu. He laughs, a deep I'm obviously making fun of Meg kind of laugh. I'm sure my jaw is hanging, but the prices here are insane.
"You really are adorable," he says.
I fold the menu together and cross my legs. I'll show him adorable. "Those weren't your words in the shower."
He bites his lip, and his eyes light up. It's sexy as all hell, but it is not a look of defeat.
"Order whatever you want," he says. "It's on me."
"I know."
He's smirking again. I entertain him. No, it's worse. I amuse him.
Okay, fine. There's only one way to put an end to this. I need to convince Miles I'm on his level. That I'm not intimidated by his money, or his body, or his gorgeous voice.
When our server arrives, I pick the most expensive sashimi on the menu, and I order two of everything. Well, four of everything since sashimi comes two pieces to an order. I request salt instead of soy sauce. I snap the menu closed and hand it to the server.
"And to drink?" he asks.
Damn. I order a green tea and offer my
best smile. The whole unflappable thing does come off a little cold, and I'm not going to be one of those people who's an asshole to waitstaff.
Miles is still staring at me like I'm a puppy. Apparently, he's not impressed by my display. He requests his usual.
The server leaves. I take a long sip of my water. I stare at the ocean—it's only thirty feet away—to avoid the look in his eyes.
"You really like sashimi," he says.
"Yes."
He laughs. "You okay, Meg? You seem a little out of sorts."
I bring my gaze back to him. "I'm fine." It's a lie. I'm not fine. I'm crumbling. His eyes are beautiful and they're filled with affection.
"I'm not cute," I say.
"We'll have to agree to disagree there."
"Fine. But I'd rather you not keep bringing it up." I cross and uncross my legs. This seat suddenly feels uncomfortable. I don't want to amuse him. I want to affect him. I want to matter to him.
He lowers his voice. "What's so bad about being cute?"
"It's what you say about your little sister. Or about someone who is clueless and totally uncool."
"No," he says. "It's the girl who blushes when you compliment her, who tries to prove she's a badass by ordering enough sashimi for three people."