Page 18 of Dial L for Lawyer
I put the car in drive, trying not to stare at the way her dress rides up slightly when she shifts. "You'll see. And before you get clever and guess every trendy place in River North, it's none of them."
She crosses her arms, pushing her breasts up in a way that has me fighting to keep my eyes on the road. The smile is still there. "If it's not a steakhouse, what is it? Molecular tapas? That place where they serve sushi on tiny robots?"
"Lower your expectations," I say. "It's… not molecular anything."
She side-eyes me, suspicious. "Is this a test?"
"Maybe," I admit, and she snorts, which is somehow adorable and arousing at the same time.
The rest of the drive is filled with her attempts to interrogate me about the destination. I fend her off with non-answers and creative misdirection, all while hyperaware of every movement she makes—the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the wayshe crosses and uncrosses her legs, the way she absently traces patterns on her thigh that I want to follow with my tongue.
She grows quiet as I pull off Lake Shore into a weird little pocket neighborhood, all narrow streets and mismatched architecture. Serena raises an eyebrow when I skip the valet two doors down and park on the street. She waits while I come around and open her door, and when she steps out, she's close enough that I catch her scent again. Vanilla and something floral and fuck me.
"You really don't want me to know, do you?"
"Spoilers ruin everything," I say, locking the car, fighting the urge to press her against it.
She catches on as soon as we pass the neon archway. "Wait. Are you really taking me to Golden Dragon?"
"It's the number one rated Szechuan takeout within five miles," I deadpan.
She snort-laughs, and it makes me want to kiss her breathless. "I order from here once a week."
"I remember," I say, holding the door and getting an eyeful of her ass in that dress.
The hostess recognizes me instantly. "Mr. Kingsley! Table for two?"
Serena's sidelong glance is suspicious. "You come here a lot?"
"Only when I'm trying to impress someone." I don't mention the pathetic truth—that I started coming here after she ghosted me because it reminded me of her and our texts.
She smirks, arching a brow. "Wow. Do they give you a punch card for all your dates here, or do you just get a table engraved with your name?"
I stop, meeting her eyes. "There it is—your defense mechanism.“
“What?”
“You’re nervous. So you hide behind claws. But not with me. Not this time.”
"I’m not?—”
“Just sit your ass down.”
Any protest dies on her lips as she does just that. For once, she looks caught off guard.
I signal the waiter, ordering from memory—her favorites from those late-night conversations. Kung pao chicken and vegetable lo mein. She stares when the waiter leaves.
"You know my order."
"You told me once, and I have a good memory for details." I remember everything.Every text. Every laugh. The exact shade of your lipstick at the gala. The way you leaned in close as the conversation became more intimate. That pout when I said I wouldn’t kiss you because you’d been drinking...
The waiter returns with our drinks. She looks down at the bottle, lashes veiling her eyes. "Did you ever... I mean, did you—" She tries for casual but fails. "Did you take it personally? Or did you just think I was a flake?"
I peel the label off my Tsingtao, imagining peeling that dress off instead. "I thought you had a lot on your plate. But if you're asking whether I thought about you, the answer is unfortunately yes."
Every fucking day. Every time I jerked off thinking about what we could have done.
She looks stunned, like the possibility never occurred to her. "Wow. Ego boost," she mutters, color flooding her face.
