I blink my eyes shut twice.
The woman next to me whispers something in her earpiece. Her expression morphs into a scowl. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s a situation I need to address. Wait right here, and someone will seat you momentarily.”
“I’ll seat myself,” I tell her even though she’s already expertly navigating her way through the crowded dining room. She’s headed straight toward a gray-haired man wearing a chef’s jacket. His left hand is waving frantically in the air.
Sucking in a deep breath, I smooth a hand over my hair.
I set off on shaky legs toward Dale’s table. I hurry past a waitress carrying a full tray of food that smells incredible.
I take two steps to the left to avoid a woman who is taking a seat at a long, rectangular table where at least a dozen people are already enjoying cocktails.
Just as I’m about to tap Dale on the shoulder, he glances back.
“Hello,” I say nervously, my hand stuck in mid-air.
I go for it because there are no guarantees in life and I may never get another chance to touch this man.
I pat his shoulder with my hand. The contact is minimal, but he’s solid as stone under that suit jacket.
“I’m Bella,” I sigh. “Or Isabella. You can call me either.”
He moves to stand, but I skirt around him and plop myself in the wooden chair opposite him.
“There’s no need to get up.” I shake my head. “I appreciate that you wanted to. My grandma Marti would say you are a true gentleman.”
I try and mimic my grandma’s slight Italian accent on that last word, but it comes out more like a bad impersonation of a Parisian.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I go on because that’s exactly what I do when I’m flustered. I talk too much. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
Picking up the glass of water in front of him, Dale leans back and takes a sip.
“Is this your first time here?” I ask through a grin. “It’s mine. The food smells delicious.”
Dale’s gaze floats up when a waiter approaches us with a tray in his hand.
He sets a half-filled glass tumbler in front of Dale. “Whiskey neat for you, sir.”
His hand moves to grab the stem of the other glass on the tray, but he stops when he glances at me.
“Is that a cosmopolitan?” I say, clapping my hands lightly together. “How did you know it’s my favorite?”
The waiter’s gaze shifts to my date. “Sir, should I bring an…”
“This is fine.” Dale’s rich baritone voice is more intoxicating than the drink could ever be. “Thank you.”
The waiter slides the glass across the white linen tablecloth.
After the day I had at work, this is going to hit the spot, and if all goes well, Dale will be hitting the spot later back at his hotel.
The spot being my ever-elusive G-spot.
He looks like the kind of man who knows exactly where it is.
I’ve never had sex on a first date, or a second date, but with Dale I’d happily make an exception.
I take a sip of the drink. Pleasure ripples through me.
“Is it to your liking, Isabella?”