Page 71 of Living on the Edge

“Okay, but you have to go back to your own room because I need to shower, do my hair, and probably take a nap before I have the energy to go anywhere. And I’ll probably fall asleep before dessert.”

“We can get dessert to go. I promise to have you in bed by eight.”

My gaze snaps to his, and I know exactly what he’s thinking.

But I’m not going there.

I can’t.

* * *

I feellike a new woman after I shower, shave my legs, and deep condition my hair. I have to rest for a while before I can blow dry my hair but at least I feel refreshed. I told Angus we had to keep it casual because I don’t have it in me to dress up, and he said jeans and sandals would be fine.

I’m wearing cropped jeans with cute flats, a pretty top, and a touch of makeup. My hair is a little flat since I don’t have the energy to curl it, but I look better than I have for days, and my head has finally stopped pounding. The doctor told me my eardrum would heal on its own, but I need to be cognizant of any loss of hearing or other issues.

So far, I feel pretty good, all things considered, and no matter how hard I try to tell myself it’s not a date, I’m looking forward to spending another evening with Angus. The back and forth is stimulating, and even when we butt heads, his surly demeanor makes me laugh.

And he seems to like that.

There’s something in his eyes when I laugh, and it’s heady to impact a man like him. It’s just temporary, and I keep reminding myself of that when he shows up at my door looking like a whole snack in casual khakis and a polo shirt.

I force myself not to react when he casually slips his arm over my shoulders as we walk out to the rental car.

I refuse to allow myself to melt when he gives the maître d his name and the man greets him like he’s someone important—and like they’re old friends.

“Are we underdressed?” I whisper to him once we’re seated.

He smiles. “As much as I hate to say this, when you’re rich, you can wear whatever the hell you want.”

“Good to know.”

Not that I’ll ever be rich but it’s good information to have.

On the off chance someothermillionaire takes me to dinner.

The menu is filled with words I’m not familiar with, and it pisses me off that I have to google things like grana Padano, which is a cheese similar to parmesan, and farrotto, which is risotto made with farro instead of rice.

“I would try the pappardelle,” Angus suggests. “It’s amazing.”

“That’s my first choice. The duck looks good too, but I think it’ll be too heavy for my first big meal after not eating for three days.”

“Good idea.” He looks up at the waiter, asking for a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

“Champagne,” I say regretfully. “I don’t think I’m supposed to drink when I’m on antibiotics.”

He grimaces. “Oh, shit. I forgot. Let me stop him.” He goes after the waiter, they exchange words, and he comes back with a smile. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. I hope you still ordered a glass for yourself.”

“I ordered a glass of red wine for me and a surprise for you.”

Why does he go from one extreme to the other in being nice?

I’m starting to get whiplash.

“You can be sweet when you want to be,” I say, shaking my head.

I don’t want to get used to it.

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