Hard Rules
“Perfect,” I say, and she immediately eyes Shane. “Cognac?
“You know me well,” he confirms, shrugging out of his jacket and proving his crisp white shirt is indeed hugging the spectacular chest my hand had promised was beneath. “And let’s break out the good stuff tonight,” he adds. “I’ll take the Louis XIII.”
She holds out her hands for his jacket and he removes his cell phone, sticking it in his pants pocket before allowing her to take the jacket. “I’ll hang this up by the door as usual,” she informs him, “and I won’t ask if the expensive cognac is to celebrate a good day or drive away a bad one.”
“That answer changed when Emily joined me.”
“Oh,” Susie says, giving me a curious, pleased look. “Thanks indeed, Emily, because I have been witness to this man after a truly bad day and it’s not pretty.”
Shane directs a playful scowl in her direction. “Be gone before you scare her off and you’re stuck with me alone.”
She laughs, rushing away, and Shane refocuses on me. “Apparently you saved Susie from my foul mood,” he jokes.
“But who’ll save me?” I tease, trying to be as ladylike as possible as I attempt to climb into the high, half-moon-shaped booth.
“Me,” he promises, gently gripping my waist to help me into the seat.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and when I expect him to move to the opposite side of the booth, he instead slides in beside me, forcing me to scoot around. I make it to the center before he says, “Oh no you don’t,” and the next thing I know, his fingers have closed down over my knee, my sheer pantyhose the only thing between his palm and my skin.
He scoots closer, aligning our legs, tilting his head in my direction. “You’re still running.”
Not from you, I think, but I say, “Not anymore, but I admit, I did judge you at first.”
He inches back to look at me. “Did you now?”
“I did. I mean, that cup of coffee said a lot about you,” I say, calling on the skills I’d once thought would serve me well in a career that now seems lost. “I’m very good at reading people.”
His eyes light, the shadows nowhere to be found, and it pleases me to think I’ve made them disappear. “What did my coffee tell you about me?” he asks, resting an elbow on the table, his body still angled toward mine.
“It was strong and no-nonsense, meant to get a job done, without any fluff about it.”
“That still doesn’t tell me what you think it says about me.”
“Of course it does. You’re a workaholic.”
“A workaholic.”
“That’s right. It was a large triple shot. That says you are running on fumes and trying to stay focused. Oh. And you don’t take no for an answer.”
“The coffee told you I don’t take no for an answer?”
“No. That part I gathered from you not taking no for an answer.”
We break into mutual laughter that fades into a hint of a smile on his lips, the air shifting around us, thickening. There is a pureness to our shared desire that I decide is created by us having no past to color the way we feel about each other.
“Let’s talk about your coffee,” he says, putting me in the assessment hot seat.
“You didn’t drink my coffee,” I point out.
“Actually, I did.”
“What?” I ask in disbelief. “Wait. You drank my coffee after I left?”
“That’s right.”
“On purpose?”
“On purpose,” he confirms.
“Why?”
“Because I was left curious about the woman who ordered it and your drink, like mine, says things about you.”
I can’t believe he drank my drink after I left or that I’m about to invite him to look deeper into who I am. “And what exactly did it say about me?”
“It said—”
“I have a Cognac and a wine,” a waitress announces, leaving me hanging on his words.
“Wine for the lady,” Shane instructs and we both lean back to allow her to deposit our drinks in front of us, giving me the opportunity to discover our waitress is a gorgeous redhead, with deep cleavage exposing DD breasts, which make my D cup feel like an A.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks.
“I haven’t looked at the menu,” I say, reaching for it, and glancing at Shane. “You probably know what you want.”
“Indeed,” he says, the look in his eyes sizzling, as he adds, “Very decisively.”
I flush, quite certain, that yes, he has noted my brief walk down insecurity lane, and while I’m embarrassed, I am quite charmed at the way he’s made sure I know my concern was without merit. I shut the menu again. “What do you recommend?”
“They’re well known for their brown butter ravioli,” he replies, “which I have every time I visit.”
“It’s amazing,” the waitress interjects. “Melt-in-your-mouth good.”
“You had me at brown butter,” I say. “And anything with pasta and cheese, makes my favorite foods list.”
“Three check marks on the list,” Shane says, gathers our menus and offers them to the waitress. “Two of the house raviolis it is then.”
“Got it,” the waitress confirms. “Any drinks, aside from what you have, with your meal?”