Page 3 of Hungry Hearts

I try a different approach. Holding out my hand, I say, “My name’s Ryder Benton. I’m six foot one and weigh one hundred ninety-five pounds. Two hundred after having my favorite meal.”

“Which is?”

Ah. Got her interest. “Porterhouse steak grilled to medium rare, fingerling potatoes roasted in garlic, butter, and rosemary, and if I’m feeling healthy, I’ll throw in a spear or two of asparagus. Your turn. Name and favorite meal? You don’t have to tell me your height and weight. I’ll figure that out when...” I let my eyes take a leisurely stroll of her face and dip down to her chest, which is covered in a modest black top but can’t hide the impressive rack underneath. “Later.”

She rolls her eyes. “I love a good surf and turf meal.”

“Mm. What cut of meat and which surf?” I’ll sacrifice a few minutes with her and run back to make her favorite meal. It’ll be worth it and will keep her here longer.

“Steak is steak. Shrimp, scallops, and lobster are the perfect trifecta.”

“I’m sorry. What?” I clasp my hands over my heart. “You didnotjust say ‘steak is steak’.”

Fuck, she can insult me and cuts of meat all day if it means I get to see that smile on those delicious lips.

“I’m not picky.”

“You obviously haven’t had a meal prepared by me.”

“You cook?”

I could boast to her about being the head chef and owner of Red, but it would be nice to have a woman fawn over me for something other than my culinary talents, reputation, or bank account.

“I have many talents...” She still doesn’t budge, keeping her name a secret. I’ll find out when she pays. Unless she pays with cash, which would ruin my freaking night. I decide to go easy on her. “Fine, you won’t tell me your name, but what about your favorite ice cream?”

“Ice cream?”

“Sure. You can tell a lot about someone by their taste in ice cream.” And red meat, but I won’t hold that against her. I’ll give her the one flaw. It still doesn’t bump her from perfection status.

“What if I like a variety?”

“Variety is the spice of life. No problem with that.”

Angel interlocks her fingers and rests her chin on the back of her hands. “Why do I have a feeling when I tell you you’ll say it’s your favorite, or you’ll come up with a flavor that’s perfectly compatible? It seems to be your pick-up MO.”

“I would never. The zodiac thing wasn’t staged. I told you mine before you told me yours. It’s fate, Angel.”

She narrows her eyes at me and huffs out a sigh. “Cherry chocolate chip.”

I tap my finger on my chin and stare up at the ceiling as if deep in thought. I mean, I am. I’m thinking of all the ways I want to fuck her, of all the body parts I want to touch and kiss and suck, of all the places I want my tongue, and I wonder if they’ll taste like cherry chocolate chip.

This isn’t helping the issue behind my zipper. I rest my elbows on the bar so my junk is hidden and discreetly adjust myself.

“Cherry is fun and carefree. Chocolate is lusty. Combine the two and, yeah, you’re my perfect woman.” She laughs and finishes her drink. “Would you like another?”

She taps her fingers on the bar and stares at her empty glass, then lifts those chocolate orbs to me and nods.

Thank fuck. More time with her. Two more customers take a seat not far from our intimate conversation, and I make nice, take their order, pour their drinks, and leave them. I mix up Angel’s gin and tonic and set it in front of her.

“Your turn. Favorite ice cream?” she asks, taking a sip of her drink.

Finally, a sign she wants to continue with our flirting session.

“Easy. A sundae.”

“That’s not a flavor of ice cream.”

“Sure it is.”

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