He picked up his terrible drink and knocked half of it back. “Best I can do. ‘You’re an intriguing woman, Jennifer.’ ”
“Thank you. You’re doing a lovely job of pretending to be humble.”
“You don’t think I’m humble?”
“I don’t think you have a humble bone in your body.”
A straight face. A slow smirk. “Look at me, not making any ‘bone’ jokes.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re a simple man, aren’t you, Steve?”
“Now you want me to say something like, ‘All a man needs to know how to do is work, fuck, and grill a decent steak.’ ”
“I do?”
“You do. Then you can shoot me down, and you won’t have to sit at a table with me.” He pointed at her, eyebrows raised. “The whole prospect of the table thing fills you with panic.”
“Sorry, why am I panicking?”
“The footsie,” he said. “You can’t handle the footsie.”
She looked at their feet. Closer together than she’d realized—they’d been edging nearer as they talked.
Or, at least, she had. His bag was in the same place where he’d set it when he walked over, right next to his legs.
It wasn’t smart, letting herself play with him this way. It only set her up for the crash when playtime ended and they had to go home and pick up their problems all over again.
But it was so enticing, talking to this man who was Tony-but-not-Tony. This man who was everything she loved about her husband and none of the baggage that came with him.
Stripped of his husbandness, and her without her wifeness. So much more fun.
“I have to admit, I’m not sure I want those clodhoppers anywhere near my feet.”
“Nah, you’re misunderstanding. You’re not afraid I’m going to step on you. You’re afraid of what you’ll do once you get me underneath a table.”
“Oh, I see,” she said with dawning understanding. “I’m terrified that my feet will be magnetically attracted to your …” She raised a skeptical eyebrow at his crotch.
“My humble bone,” he supplied helpfully.
Amber laughed, and he grinned, and oh, Steve had a smile on him. A good sense of humor, a winning grin, nice hair, nice hands, nice arms.
She liked him. Liked the way he looked at her, the way he talked to her.
As if she was really here, and so was he, and he was listening. He was interested.
“You might be right,” she admitted. “It’s kind of a scary prospect.”
“Don’t be scared, baby,” he said with an exaggerated leer. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about what happens if these shoes get too close to your humble bone.”
He peeked at the pointed toes of her heels and winced. “You’re supposed to take the shoes off when you play footsie.”
She made her eyes round. “Oh? Dag. I’ve been doing it all wrong.”
“Left a trail of emasculated men in your wake, have you?”
“And I never could figure out why they didn’t call me after.”