Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
When we’re finished with the appetizer and salad, another man—the sommelier, I assume—arrives with a bottle of wine.
He holds it out to Samson. “Your Pauillac, Mr. Vexley.” He uncorks it expertly and pours a small amount into Samson’s glass. “Cabernet dominant. You’ll notice darker fruit, blackcurrant, a bit of cedar. It opens slowly, but there’s depth once it does.”
Samson nods, picks up the wineglass, and swirls the wine. “Nice nose,” he says. “I smell the cedar.” He takes a sip. “Delicious. Thank you.”
The sommelier fills my glass without asking.
I like wine, but I don’t know much about it. I can only imagine what this bottle costs.
The sommelier fills Samson’s glass and leaves the opened bottle on our table as he leaves.
Samson nods toward the glass. “Try it.”
I purse my lips. “I’m afraid it may be wasted on me.”
“Good wine is never wasted on anyone.”
It’s not a command. He’s not demanding that I taste it. So why do I feel compelled to obey him?
I pick up the goblet, swirl the wine in the glass, and take a sip.
Wow. It bursts across my tongue. It tastes like red wine, for sure, but it’s smoother, more complex. I’m actually thinking about it as I swallow.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“I’m not sure how to describe it,” I say. “I guess the word that comes to mind is ‘lush.’”
He clears his throat. “Lush is a good word.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I say nothing. I’m doing a lot of saying nothing on this date. This date that may not even be a date.
Samson Vexley doesn’t talk a lot. That’s not surprising, given what I know about him, which is precious little except that he’s the brawn of the Vexley family. Brawn doesn’t talk a lot by nature.
Why did he invite me here? And why did I come?
I know the answer to my own question. I’m looking for answers.
But I don’t seem to be getting any. Probably because I’m not sure of which questions to ask this man. And even if I was sure, he wouldn’t answer them anyway.
The dinner passes without any conversation of note. Everything is delicious, from the spinach and strawberry salad with pecan vinaigrette, the filet mignon with baby bella mushrooms and petits haricots verts—which turn out to be thin green beans—and the cinnamon crème brûlée for dessert.
I have to give Samson Vexley credit. He ordered a perfect meal, from the tuna tartare and the wine all the way to the espresso we enjoyed at the end.
“Thank you,” I say, finally laying my napkin across my empty dessert plate. “Everything was delicious.”
He doesn’t reply. Simply looks at me, those amber eyes smoldering.
God…what is he after?
“I… I suppose it’s getting late,” I say.
“Of course.” He rises, pulls out my chair, and offers me his hand.
When I take it, a tingle rushes through me. I’m not surprised. He’s ridiculously attractive in that rugged “I’m going to get what I want no matter what” sort of way.
Outside, the night air is cooler. The city moves around us, yet I almost feel like we’re the only two people here.
I look at him.
And for a moment, I hope he’ll close the distance between us, kiss me with those full and glistening lips.
“I’ll have the car take you home,” he says.
I shake my head. “I can manage.”
His eyes burn into me. “It’s already waiting.”
I tilt my head, try to read his gaze.
He’s unreadable.
What the hell was this night for him? I know why I went. I want answers. Not that I got any. But what was he looking for?
The driver arrives and opens the door.
I get in, declining help from Samson. I look at him, trying to find something—anything—in his expression that will tell me what this evening was about.
Instead, he closes the car door for me and then takes out his phone.
The car begins to move. I watch the streetlamps go by. The motion should settle me.
It doesn’t.
My hand is still on the door handle.
I force myself to let go.
This is ridiculous.
It was dinner.
One conversation. One man. One—
My wrist pulses.
I look down at it before I can stop myself.
There’s nothing there. No mark. No lingering pressure.
And still—
I can feel exactly where his thumb moved.
I curl my fingers slightly, pressing into the inside of my wrist as if I can override the sensation.
It doesn’t help.
My pulse jumps under my touch.
I drop my hand into my lap.
No.
That’s not what this is.
I shift back against the seat, crossing my legs, trying to put distance between myself and the memory.
It doesn’t work. Because it isn’t just the touch. It’s everything around it.
The way he leaned forward—not abruptly, not aggressively—just enough to change the atmosphere between us.
The way his voice lowered when he spoke, like the rest of the room didn’t matter.
The way he looked at me. Not at my dress. Not at my body. At me.