He slid his hands up her back and pulled her close. “What else is in there?” he asked as he peered at her modest show of cleavage.
“My driver’s license.”
“I have pockets, you know. You could have given me your cards and phone to hold for you.”
“I didn’t think of that. I left my phone at home because I couldn’t fit it in.” But now that she knew it was an option . . . This was why women had boyfriends.
Except he wasn’t her boyfriend.
Michael’s fingertip tucked beneath the bodice of her dress and skimmed across the front. It brushed inadvertently across a nipple, making her blood race and breast swell before he found the license and slipped it free. From the twinkle in his eye, she realized it hadn’t been an accident at all.
His expression softened as he swept his thumb over the photograph on her driver’s license. In the outdated picture, she looked young and extremely shy—an accurate description for the time. She liked to think she’d gained sophistication since then. Just look at where she was now.
“That was right after I finished my postdoc.”
“How old were you here?”
“Twenty-five.”
The corner of his mouth kicked up. “You look eighteen. Even now, you barely look legal.”
“Allow me to demonstrate how legal I am by drinking.”
Feeling drunk off success and empowerment, she marched to one of the empty tables and sat, eyes peeled for waitstaff. Michael tucked a hand into his pants pocket and strode toward her with a relaxed bearing worthy of the runway. All of him was worthy of the runway, but there was also something about that suit. It looked expensive and excellently tailored, yet somehow more chic than anything she’d ever seen on other men.
He stretched out next to her, close enough that their thighs pressed together, and propped his arm on the seat behind her. She
liked that. A lot. It made her feel like he was staking a claim on her.
“What brand is this suit? I love it.” With the barest hesitation, she smoothed her hands over the lapels and crisp shoulders of the jacket.
Searching her eyes, he smiled a slow, beautiful smile. “It’s custom made.”
“My compliments to your tailor.” She checked the inside and was even more pleased when she couldn’t detect the bunching of hasty seams underneath the fine silk lining. Expert craftsmanship.
“I’ll tell him.”
“Maybe I should switch. Does he do women’s apparel? Is he terribly busy?” As she spoke, she couldn’t help running her palms down his chest, loving the firmness of his body beneath the starched cotton of his dress shirt.
“He is very busy.”
She sighed in disappointment. “My tailor is all right, but she thinks I’m crazy. She stabs me a lot, too. I’m not convinced it’s always an accident.”
His muscles tensed underneath her hands, and he sat up straighter. His voice had an angry edge as he asked, “You mean she stabs you on purpose?”
Was he upset . . . on her behalf? The thought sent warmth bubbling throughout her body, and whatever grudges she’d harbored against her vindictive tailor were forgotten.
“In her defense, I’m very picky. She calls me her diva client,” Stella said.
“That doesn’t make it okay. She should have better control of her pins. It’s not that hard. Even when I was ten, I still—” He pressed his lips together and raked a hand through his hair. “What things are you picky about?”
“Oh, well, I . . .” She drew her hands toward herself and laced them together so she couldn’t tap her fingers. “I’m particular about the way things feel on my skin. Tags and scratchy, lumpy seams, loose threads, places where the fabric is too tight or too loose. I’m not a diva, I’m just . . .”
“A diva,” he said with a teasing smirk.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Fine.”
A waitress in a short black skirt and a tight white top bearing the club’s logo sauntered to the table.