I’ve eaten plenty of meals with James, but it’s rarely just the two of us, and never in a dimly lit restaurant with fancy alcohol, leather-bound menus, and innocuous classical music playing from hidden speakers. I know this isn’t a date—I know, we made that very clear upstairs—but it feels like it anyway. I’m in the best dress I own—the blue one I save to follow Melly to morning shows and big interviews—and James is sitting across from me, wearing a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt and a smile that makes me wonder if he thinks this is a real date, too.
He picks up a giant shrimp and dunks it in a dish of cocktail sauce. “This is a really nice hotel. Almost a whole star up from the Motel 6 in Hollywood. Good job.”
I kick him under the table.
He coughs as he chews, laughing into his napkin. “I’m being sincere,” he says, once he’s come up for air, “it’s great. I’m not much of a tub guy, but the one in my bathroom is making me question myself.”
Not even going to imagine him sinking naked into a giant tub of bubbles. Definitely not going to imagine sinking into a tub with him, leaning back against his chest and feeling his arms come around my waist, his hand sliding—
New topic. “Did you know it’s supposed to be haunted?”
His eyes widen playfully. “My tub?”
I narrow my eyes at him, fighting a smile. “The hotel. I walked downstairs to get some toothpaste because I’ve lost yet another tube, and there was some kind of tour happening.”
“Like a ghost tour?”
I pick up a roll and butter it. “The concierge told me the first owner supposedly haunts the hotel. There’s a mirror in the lobby where you can see the reflection of a woman in a turquoise dress. Oh!” I point my buttery knife at him. “And someone claimed they sat up in bed one night and there was a little boy playing peekaboo at the foot of her bed.” I laugh at his horrified expression. “The front desk will even bring you a companion fish to keep you company. Pretty cute, right?”
When I glance up again, James is still staring at me, second shrimp paused midway to his mouth.
I lift a brow. “You’re not scared, are you?”
He sets the shrimp back down on his plate. “I definitely don’t want a ghost child playing peekaboo in my bed.”
“I know. I would pee my pants, no question. But don’t worry, the guide said the twelfth, ninth, and seventh floors are the only ones ever reported for any activity. And the lobby, of course.”
He blinks. “I’m on the ninth floor, Carey.”
“Oh.” I laugh. “Do you want me to order you an emotional support fish?”
Straightening, James waves the waiter over and orders us both another glass of wine. “Yes to the fish,” he says, and grins at me over the top of his glass. “But enough of this will help, too.”
I smile back at him across the table and ignore the gnawing worry slowly rising in my chest. This feels so good. How am I supposed to be platonic with this guy? The more time I spend with him, the more I genuinely like everything about him. More than like. Tonight, after dinner, I want to take him by the hand and walk him upstairs to bed.
The idea of sleeping with his bare, lanky body pressed all along mine makes me shiver.
“So, Kurt,” he asks, and my sexy thoughts trip and fall over the Incompatible Topics Cliff. “What does he do for a living?”
“He frames houses. Started working with my dad when he was fifteen, and then Dad died and Kurt took over. He was twenty-two and has been doing it nearly every day since. I gave it a try before the dystonia started, but even then I complained so much he actually gave me twenty dollars to go away.”
James choke-laughs on a sip of wine, and I kick him again. “So when I called Melly to tell them what time we made the reservations for, she said Rusty was up in your room?”
He nods and looks at me like he broke a rule.
The expression is so hilarious, I burst out laughing. “I don’t care if he’s in your room, James.”
“Honestly, I think he was lonely. Well, mostly I think he wanted to watch the game, and since he and Melissa had to share a room on this leg, and she wouldn’t let him use the TV, he came down to me. I’d feel bad for him, but he’s just as much to blame for their problems as she is.”
I pull back, brows furrowed. “Some would even say he’s more to blame, seeing as how he decided to stick his penis in a woman who isn’t his wife.”