Page 117 of Don't Go Breaking My Heart
I, on the other hand, am one deep breath away from fidgeting with the bread plate and screaming into the linen napkin on my lap.
Beneath the table, Turner’s thigh brushes against mine, a casual little touch that nonetheless sends a shiver through my spine.
Enter: the server.
She’s beautiful. Her chignon is tight, her red lipstick is aggressive, and her eyes go straight to Turnerlike she’s been trained to recognize high-quality man meat.Or maybe she recognizes him and is a fan. Either way, she immediately begins flirting.
“Good evening,” she says, voice smooth as the sauvignon she’s recommending. “May I start you off with a glass of wine?”
Georgia smiles politely. “We’ll take the wine list.”
But the waitress isn’t looking at Georgia.
Or me.
She’s gazing at Turner like he’s the tomahawk steak on special.
“And you?” she asks, leaning just slightly into his space. “Doyouhave a preference?”
“I’ll wait until the ladies have ordered,” he says politely, ever the gentleman.
“Of course,” she purrs. “I’ll be back in just a moment.” She saunters off, hips swinging like she’s been personally hired by the Michelin Guide to seduce every man who walks through the doors.
I narrow my eyes at her back.
Georgia flips open her menu. “She was pretty,” she says casually, not looking up.
“Hmm?” Turner says, fake-innocent, mouth twitching.
I try not to roll my eyes. “Pretty thirsty,yeah.”
Turner’s lips twitch, like he’s dying to laugh but knows better.
“Yeah?” he hums, gaze still fixed on his menu like it’s the most riveting piece of literature he’s ever read. “Maybe she appreciates good manners.”
“Manners?” I scoff. “She practically climbed into your lap to take your drink order.”
“She did not,” he says, feigning shock. “Did she?”
Georgia still isn’t looking up. “I think she licked her lips twice. Maybe three times. But who’s counting?”
His grin widens. “I like when you get feisty.”
Feisty?!
Not a minute later, the server returns with the wine list, setting it downdirectlyin front of Turner as if his sister and I are not even there. Her smile?
Sweet and lethal. “I brought our reserve menu in case you’re in the mood for somethingrare.”
Jesus Christ.
Barf.
Georgia commandeers the menu before I can grab it, flipping through with a hum, finger moving over a collum of liquor.
“I’ll do a glass of Moscato,” she says, handing it to me.
“Same.”
