Page 5 of His to Cherish
“Are you cold?” he asks, eyes locked on a place somewhere a few inches over my shoulder. “You look a little cold. Why don’t you take my jacket?”
“No,” I say, feeling bratty. I have a bit of a temper, and it’s starting to come out to play. Why does he want me to cover up so bad? And why the hell can’t he look me in my eyes?
He opens his mouth—probably to get all bossy on me—but the waiter chooses that moment to return. “Can I bring some wine, sir?”
Oliver looks at me and I decide to try again. I smile, looking him straight in the eye, and say, “whatever you want.”
And I mean it. This man can have anything he wants. I just hope by the end of the night that list might include me.
His eyes darken and I see him swallow hard before turning back to the waiter and ordering a brand of wine I’ve never heard of.
I shouldn’t find that so attractive—the way he knows so much about wine—but I can’t help it. It gives me the same feeling I got in the valet lane out front. I like that Oliver is more sophisticated than me. I want him to show me all these things I’ve never experienced before. I want him to teach me.
You’re such a weirdo,I think with a sigh as the waiter leaves again. Who fantasizes about stuff like that?
“Tell me about your week,” I say, recalling one of the dating magazines mentioning that guys like it when you take an interest in their business. “Is the Zenith buyout in the bag?”
“Not yet.” He frowns. “They’re dragging their feet on all the financials. Their CEO is adamant about not selling but he doesn’t have a leg to stand on—it’s either us or bankruptcy. I just can’t figure out how to make him see that this deal is in everyone’s best interest.”
I reach across the table and pat his arm, letting my hand linger far longer than normal. “You’ll figure it out,” I say. “You’re the most capable, smartest man I know.”
I’m not just stroking his ego—even though the dating advice did recommend that. I mean every word. Ollie is amazing—smart, innovative, decisive. It’s a huge part of why I like him so much.
His gaze falls to the hand still on his arm and when he looks up, his eyes have darkened in a way that makes my tummy flip.
I spend the rest of the meal trying to do everything the magazine authors suggested. I flip my hair. I bite my lip. I let my finger trail over my collarbone while I listen to him.
And the craziest thing happens. I think it actually starts to work. I notice his eyes following the path of my fingers on my collarbone. That same gaze darkens when I bite my lip. And every time I lean closer to hear him better, his eyes lock on my chest, the expression in his eyes undeniably hungry.
Is he actually into me? The thought has me so giddy I can barely sit still through the meal.
When the waiter returns again to ask about dessert, I lean into Oliver. “I don’t think there’s room in this dress for dessert.” Just as I hoped, his eyes scan the parts of the dress he can see. “But if you get something, I could manage a few bites.” I bat my eyelashes again. “Maybe you could feed me?”
His eyes flash once more, darker than they’ve been all night, and he doesn’t drop my gaze even as he answers the waiter. I’m so caught up in the moment that I don’t notice he ordered two desserts until the man is walking away.
“You don’t want to share?” I ask innocently.
“If you’re that full, you can take the rest of yours home,” he says. He studies my face for a moment before seeming to shake himself.
“Care to tell me what the hell is going on?”
I blink at him, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this whole thing.” He waves his hand, circling around my face. “Why the hell are you looking at me like that? What’s with all the touching? And why the hell did you say that about me feeding you?”
I feel the blood drain from my face. He isn’t into me at all. In fact, he looks a little pissed off. God, I’m so stupid.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, my voice tiny as I stare down at my hands. “I just thought…”
“Just thought what?”
When I don’t answer, he sighs, tossing down his napkin. Then I hear the scrape of his chair legs and suddenly he’s sitting much closer to me instead of on his side of the little circular table.
“Lilly,” he says, in that commanding way of his. “I want you to talk to me. What’s going on in your head?” His palm, warm and heavy, comes down on my knee, rubbing gentle circles there. My entire body breaks out in goosebumps.
“Talk to me.”
I don’t know what it is about that voice, but for some reason, I have a really hard time disobeying it. Even when the result is my own mortification.
