Page 33 of Wicked Flirt
She put her napkin in her lap and whispered, “This is so nice.”
“Wait until you try the food. The steak Florentine is outstanding.”
She opened the menu, took a look at the prices, and seriously considered ordering a salad. This was ridiculously expensive.
A few minutes later, the waiter brought over the specials, and Marcus asked for a wine recommendation, checked in with her, and then ordered them a bottle. Merlot from Tuscany. No price discussed.
She leaned across the table to whisper, “Marcus, you’re very generous, but you’ve already offered me an event with a generous budget, and I’m afraid this is too much.”
He leaned close. “This is our first official date and I want you to feel special.”
“I do, but—”
“That’s all that matters.” He sat back in his seat. “Please just enjoy. You’re the first woman I’ve spent time with that cut through the numbness I’ve felt since my divorce. Your delight is mine too, your happiness makes me happy, and even your jabs are fine because I feel everything with you. Do you know how special that is? How special you are?”
She swallowed over the lump in her throat. “I will really try not to jab.”
He laughed. “Just be yourself. I like who you are.”
“I like you too,” she managed.
They smiled at each other like fools.
The waiter arrived with the wine and gave her a small amount to taste. Her eyes widened. “It’s wonderful!” The best wine she’d ever tasted.
“Excellent,” the waiter said, pouring her a glass.
“Excellent,” Marcus echoed, his gaze warm on hers.
She couldn’t seem to look away, caught in thrall. He was romantic and gorgeous. His only physical imperfection was the slight bump in his nose. As soon as the waiter left, she asked Marcus, “How’d you break your nose? Boxing?”
“Flag football with the Campbells. It was an accident. Mad fell on me and got me with her hard head.”
“Aww, little Mad?” Her friend Mad was six years younger than him and petite.
He pressed his lips together. “Actually it was boxing. The guy was much bigger than me, like a frigging giant.”
She laughed. “Uh-huh.”
“Really!” He gestured for how tall and wide the guy was.
She shook her head, smiling.
He took a sip of wine, his dark eyes intent on hers. “Tell me more about you. Favorite place, favorite food, favorite wine, very important to know the wine since I own a bar—tell me everything that’s important to you.”
She stared at him, stunned. No man had ever asked what was important to her.
He waited, looking back at her expectantly.
And because he really did seem to care about her, she rattled off the answers. “Favorite place is Manhattan. I just love the energy, all the people and activity. Favorite food would be a tie between chicken marsala and the ro-jis that my mom makes. They’re like a Chinese hamburger, but instead of beef, it’s seasoned pork that’s been cooked all night in cardamon and cloves, and I don’t even know what else is in it. Plus the buns are homemade.”
“Your mom’s Chinese?”
“She’s half Chinese, also part Irish, Italian, and Puerto Rican.” She lifted a lock of her stick-straight dark brown hair. “My hair is from the Chinese side.”
“Your hair is like silk. I love it.”
She felt herself flush. There was a time she was desperate to look like some of her friends with waves or curls, but her hair was uncooperative and, it turned out, those friends wished their hair could be as straight as hers. “Thanks. People are always curious about my ethnicity, mostly because of my hair, tan skin tone, and the downward slant of my eyes.”
