Page 75 of One Good Puck
“Could I interest you two in some dessert?” the server asks when he comes to collect our empty plates. “We have a delicious crème caramel and cherry clafoutis on tonight’s menu. We also have profiteroles, which are our chef’s specialty.”
Abby’s face lights up. “Those are my favorite. I wish I had room for them, but I’m stuffed from dinner.”
“We’ll take an order of profiteroles to go, please,” I tell the waiter.
“Absolutely, sir.”
He walks off, and Abby turns to me, a surprised smile on her face.
“You can eat it later,” I say.
The server comes back with the boxed-up dessert and check. I hand him my credit card, sign the check once he brings it back, and stand up from the table. Together, Abby and I walk out of the restaurant.
Once we’re out the door, she stops me with a hand on my arm.
“Gavin, I just want to tell you thank you so much again. That was such a lovely dinner.”
Even in the darkness of the night, her eyes are bright and dazzling.
“Thank you for having dinner with me,” I say.
The corner of her mouth lifts in a sweet, shy smile. Her cheeks are pink from the wine she had at dinner.
“You’re the perfect date,” she says softly.
“So are you.”
We’re both quiet for a long moment. The air between us is thick and charged with something I feel every time I’m around Abby.
Want.
I want Abby. I want to cup her face in my hand and kiss her breathless.
Heat flashes across my entire body. Every muscle inside of me aches to pull her against me and crash my mouth against hers.
If this were an actual date, that’s exactly what I’d do. I kiss her so slow and so teasing…
“It’s getting late. We should probably head back home,” she says, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I let out a breath and nod once. “Yeah, we should.”
Chapter 30
Abby
When we walk into the house, I’m giddy. And not just because of the wine.
But because I just went on the best date of my life with Gavin.
I follow him to the kitchen, watching as he sheds his suit coat and hangs it over one of the stools at the island.
I take in the broad spread of his shoulders, how big his hands are when he sets the container of profiteroles on the counter. He rolls up the sleeve of his dove gray dress shirt along his thick, muscled forearm, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from moaning at how sexy that is.
I watch as he grabs a glass from the cupboard, fills it with water, and then takes a drink. My gaze fixes on his thick neck, the way his throat bobs as he swallows.
God.
Literally everything about him is sexy.
