His long fingers caress the stem. God, how can a man have such beautiful hands?
I turn my attention back to my dessert. “Well, I only moved to Chicago three months ago.”
He nods. “Right after I took off. No wonder I haven’t seen you. I would have remembered if I did.”
In spite of the fact that I know he’s just saying that because it sounds nice, I blush.
You know what I can’t believe? The fact that this man doesn’t have a wife or a girlfriend. Shouldn’t a supermodel or an heiress have snagged him by now? Why is he having Thanksgiving dinner with me?
Yes, I know I don’t look bad. I’ve got icy blue eyes – someone in my third grade class once called me “Sparkly Eyes Barbie” – and I’ve taken really good care of my teeth so they’re as close to perfect as can be. Plus I have naturally good skin. Even though I don’t have any particular skincare regimen, I’ve never had an acne breakout and my pores seem just the right size. And my high metabolic rate ensures that I don’t really gain weight even if I eat a ton. But I wear glasses, my hair is as stubborn and frizzy as can be, and I’m pretty sure my breasts are a size too small, which is why I don’t wear strapless dresses. My point is that Rainier is off-the-charts good-looking and I’m just a tad above average at best.
“You wouldn’t have,” I tell him. “There are a lot of women in Chicago.”
And he’s probably been out with half of them.
He points to his head and grins. “I’ve got a good memory.”
Strangely enough, I don’t doubt that. Everything he’s said and done so far hints at an excellent brain behind that handsome face. Yup. Perfect in every way.
He’s memorizing me now. The color of my eyes. The shape of my nose and my chin. The angle of my cheekbones. The shade of the lipstick I’m wearing.
The scrutiny is too much. I hide behind my glass of water and try to think of something to say.
Think, Ellis. Show him you’ve got a brain, too.
“You know what I find hard to believe? That you don’t like Christmas.”
Rainier’s eyebrows furrow. “When did I say that?”
“Well, you said the holidays last long enough,” I tell him as I put down my glass. “If you liked Christmas, you would wish they’d last forever.”
He says nothing.
I pick up my spoon and grin. “I have a good memory, too.”
I wouldn’t have made it through medical school if I didn’t.
Rainier crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, it’s not that I don’t like Christmas.”
I raise an eyebrow.
He sighs. “Fine. I don’t. It’s… tedious.”
“Tedious?” I snort.
He shrugs. “Why risk getting trampled on by a crowd just so you can spend a ton of money on stuff other people don’t even want, much less need?”
“Then don’t. Christmas isn’t about presents.”
“Really?”
He sits back. With his scarf and his coat out of the way, I have a better view of his ripped upper body. I can almost see the rigid muscles through his knitted sweater, though I’ve been trying to pry my eyes off them for the past hour.
Thank goodness we’re already at dessert. If I stay another hour with this utterly perfect, steamy, magnetic storm of a man, something might just melt and I can’t guarantee it won’t be my panties.
I push my glasses up my nose. “Really.”
He taps his fingers on the table. “Are you saying you’ve never bought Christmas presents for anyone?”
“I have,” I admit. “For people I care about, who I’m grateful to have in my life. That’s what Christmas is about – celebrating, treasuring the people you love, making them happy. It’s not the presents. It’s the smile you put on their faces when you give them presents, when they tear off that shiny wrapping paper and see something they want. You see, if you give a present to someone close to you, you know what they want so they’re bound to be happy with what you get them. If you don’t know what someone wants, it just means you probably shouldn’t be getting them a present.”
Rainier says nothing. He’s just looking at me. Intently.
Shit. Did I say something I shouldn’t have? Have I said too much?
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean to…”
“No, it’s fine,” he says with a grin. “And thanks for the tip. That certainly trims down my shopping list this year.”
I’m not sure I’m happy about that, but I am relieved that he doesn’t look like he’s about to bolt.
I smile as I lick my spoon.
Wait. I don’t want him to leave? I thought I wanted this dinner to be over.
“Do you want more dessert?” Rainier asks me. “And I’m only asking because you seem to be eating that spoon, which I’m pretty sure isn’t edible.”