Page 66 of Perfect Pairing
Delia resumed her flicking through my closet, gasping when she came upon something she liked. She pulled the hanger off the rod and turned toward us, and I couldn’t help but grin.
“I forgot I had this,” I said, moving across the room to take it from her, letting the fabric glide through my fingers.
“It’s perfect,” Ella agreed.
The mini dress had a tight bodice that flared out at my ribs into a flouncy little skirt. It had sheer sleeves, a deep V-neck, and adorable crochet detailing along the collar and around the band below my breasts. The caramel color was perfect for fall, looked amazing with my olive coloring and dark hair, and made the few specks of gold in my eyes pop. My sisters nodded approvingly when I put it on, and after further rummaging through mycloset, Delia passed me a pair of light tan ankle booties. With gold dangly earrings and my favorite rings, the look was complete.
And not a moment too soon.
Promptly at seven, Damian texted to let me know he’d arrived. After blowing kisses to both of my sisters, I headed outside to meet him. He was leaning against the side of his car, arms crossed over his chest, admittedly delicious biceps stretching the black material of his shirt—another Polo—to its limits. A pair of Ray Bans shaded his eyes, but the soft smile on his lips bloomed into a full-on grin when I stepped onto the sidewalk.
He approached me, taking my hands in his and studying me head to toe. “You are breathtaking.”
Heat rose to my cheeks as I squeaked out, “Thank you.”
“Ready to go?”
“Yes, please. I’m starving.”
He chuckled lowly as he led me around to the passenger side and opened the door for me. “I appreciate a girl who can eat.”
After I settled in the car—a fancy silver Tesla that would never survive a winter in Michigan—and he was behind the wheel, steering us through the streets of Apple Blossom Bay, I said, “Of course I can eat. I own a bakery, after all.”
His eyes flicked to me quickly before returning to the road. “You definitely don’t look like it.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. What exactly was a pastry chef supposed to look like? The Pillsbury Doughboy? And even if I didn’t look the way I did, there wasn’t anything wrong with that. It wasn’t Damian’s place to make comments about my body, and I couldn’t help but make a mental strike against him.
“So what is there to do for fun around here?” he askedconversationally as we wound up the peninsula toward the winery.
“We usually go into the city,” I admitted. “But there’s also Granny Smith’s Tavern here in town, which is a fun place to grab casual drinks.”
“Sounds…quaint,” he said, his lips twitching.
I pursed my own but didn’t speak. Small town life wasn’t for everyone, but I didn’t appreciate the insinuation in his tone.Sigh, another strike. Maybe I wasn’t meant for dating after all. Maybe I should’ve learned my lesson with Ezra.
Oh, wait.
Ezra.
The man who would be cooking dinner for me and Damian.
My heart rate kicked up to cardiac arrest levels as we pulled into the winery lot. The gravel crunching under the Tesla’s tires seemed comically loud, and I scrambled for a way to get out of this before it even started.
At this point, I was prepared to consider the whole evening a wash.
But, oblivious to my internal strife, Damian hummed happily as he parked the car, got out, and came around to help me out and lead me inside. My eyes darted across the space as we moved into the lobby and toward the hostess stand. Of course, the girl working recognized me immediately, but I shot her a pleading glance, willing her to keep her mouth shut. Damian had begun to show me his true colors, and the last thing I needed was him laying it on even thicker when he found out my name was on the walls, my family’s fingerprints all over this place.
“Reservation for two,” Damian said. “Under Damian Fellowes.” He shot the hostess a smarmy smile, and I choked back agroan.
Why hadn’t I seen it before?
Well, I knew why.
I’d been so desperate for some attention, I’d accepted a date with the first guy who batted his eyelashes at me instead of taking the time to think things through. Damian’s presentation was gorgeous, with his classic, all-American good looks and charm, but as a chef, I knew that wasn’t everything. The flavor—or in this case, personality—was what mattered, and the more time I spent with him, the more I found Damian’s lacking.
And I wasn’t even getting a free meal out of it, because it’s not like I paid for my food at the winery anyway.
Mentally, I shook myself, dropping my shoulders away from my ears. I was here, Damian was nice enough, if a bit pretentious, and I was obviously a huge fan of Ezra’s cooking and CD wines. I could find a way to enjoy myself.
