“I’ll tell him about us soon,” I promise. “I just need to figure out how to raise the topic.” But that’s not the only thing I have to figure out. Even if I can come up with a reasonable explanation for my current association with Calder, what exactly do I call this thing between us? I know that we’re attracted to each other, and I believe there’s a deeper emotional connection here. But how deep? We’re not even technically “exclusive”—right?
Look at me. We’re not even to the car and I’m already over-analyzing things.
Thus begins the Madness of Lily Frazer.
Still, I put on a smile. I’m on a date with Calder Cunningham. I need to stop worrying and enjoy myself.
He stops in front of a silver sedan.
“Your chariot, my lady.” He eyes the car sidelong. “This is where I wish I’d found a way to keep the Lamborghini.”
I laugh. “You’ve seen the death trap that I drive. This looks like pure luxury.” I should tell him that it doesn’t matter what he drives—that he could carry me to the restaurant on the handlebars of a bicycle, for all I care—but that sentiment sounds way too sappy. So I bite my lip and let him guide me into the passenger’s seat.
I cross my hands in my lap as he walks around to the driver’s side. My nerves have returned in full force. Back on his estate, I felt wild and wicked and seductive. In that strange, secluded mansion, I discovered a passionate, confidently-sexual side of myself that I never even knew existed. Now? I feel like a freaking high schooler on her first grown-up date—uncertain and awkward and terrified.
Please, don’t let me vomit in his car…
He flashes me another one of his killer smiles as he slides into his seat. It sets off an entire circus of butterflies in my stomach. He puts his keys into the ignition, but he doesn’t start the car. Instead, he leans over and takes me by the chin, pulling my lips to his.
I lean into his kiss, sinking into the sensations sweeping through me. This I can handle. This fire, this physical passion. I open my mouth beneath his, let his breath mingle with mine. His hand skims over my breasts, teasing my nipples to hard points beneath the thin fabric. I want to forget dinner. Forget the awkward formality of a real “date.” I want to slip out of this dress and let him fuck me right here in this car. I shouldn’t have stopped him before. I should have let him take me, because I know that as soon as we’re joined I’ll forget all these silly worries and remember that this, right now, is perfect.
But Martin is expecting us.
This time Calder is the one who pulls away first, but I can tell by the lazy curl of his lips and the dark gleam in his eyes that he wants to give into the same urges I do.
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist,” he says. “I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman at the restaurant.”
I nod and sit back against my seat.
It’s just a date, I tell myself. I’m just nervous. I bet if I told him, he’d think it was cute.
But somewhere, deep down, I know this isn’t just a date, at least not for me. And that’s the part that’s terrifying.
CHAPTER TWO
I’ve only been to a few nice restaurants in my life. And by a “few” I mean, quite literally, two or three. Fine dining isn’t exactly a priority when you’re living off of the salary I am, but I’ve treated myself once or twice, when the occasion has called for it.
But Ventine’s makes all those other restaurants look like those cheap family chains—you know, the ones that offer “Two For” Tuesdays and $6 pitchers of margaritas on Ladies’ Night. Ventine’s is swanky with a capital “S.” White linens, silver fixtures, soft golden light designed to arouse all sorts of appetites. The walls are covered in dark, glossy wood paneling, and there’s a long, marble bar backed by a mirror with silver filigree along the edges.
It’s the grand opening, so the crowd is chic and lively and well-dressed. I feel a little out of place among these people, even though I’m sure none of them will spare me a second glance. My dress might have come from a department store, but it’s as sleek and classic as anything from a designer boutique. Still, I feel like I’m walking into a scene from someone else’s life. Someone who goes to fancy parties and ribbon cuttings and drinks champagne with their dinner every Wednesday just because.
Okay, I’m exaggerating. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thrilled to be here. I glance up at Calder. He’s used to events like this, places like this, people like this. I wonder, suddenly, how it feels for him to walk in here after this life was stolen away from him. But he smiles down at me, looking completely confident and comfortable. And when he catches the eye of the maître d’, the man comes rushing over as if Calder owns the place.
“Good evening, Mr. Cunningham, Ms. Frazer,” the maître d’ chirps, nodding to each of us in turn. “Please, let me take you to your table.”
Calder keeps his hand on my waist, holding me">I pull away from him. ’m comforted by the heat of his fingers through my dress, a whisper of touch in the noise of this room. I might not belong with these people, but I belong with him.
“Martin promised me the best table in the house,” he tells me. “I told him I’d settle for nothing less.”
I grin. “I guess it pays to know the chef.”
The maître d’ leads us to a table near the back of the restaurant. It’s out of the main hustle and bustle of the floor, offering us a fair amount of privacy, but it still has a good view of the rest of the room. There’s a bouquet of amethyst calla lilies lying across one of the places.
“I almost went for roses,” Calder says, leaning down and speaking in my ear as he hands them to me. “But I thought these were more suitable.”
“They’re beautiful.” I bury my nose among the petals.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the fairy tale isn’t over yet.
Calder pulls out my chair for me, and his fingers graze my bare arm as he helps me sit. He takes the lilies from me and places them in a crystal vase already waiting on our little table. He prepared for this, thought out every little detail. It stirs something in my belly.
I feel Calder’s eyes on me as he takes his own seat, but I’m too overwhelmed to meet his gaze. This is too perfect. I’m not used to this.
Instead, I look out across the restaurant. This place truly is lovely. And if I can trust the sea of aromas greeting me, the food will be absolutely heavenly. Not that I’d expect any less. I tasted Martin’s food at the Cunningham mansion, back when the chef was still in Calder’s employ. He worked with the family for years—Calder’s entire life, essentially—but keeping a personal chef is a luxury Calder can no longer afford.