Page 56 of The Fine Art of Faking It
Julia and Rob, from OJ’s by Julia, occupied a table for two. “Hey, guys!” Eden greeted them as they passed.
Julia dropped her fork on her plate, scraping her purple bangs out of her eyes to get a better look. “Uh, hi, Eden and… Davis?”
Eden grinned and slid into the booth. This was the kind of attention her teenage rebel self had wanted. Surprise, shock. Not just a blind acceptance of every weird thing she tried. Of course, that rebellious desire had come to an abrupt end in flames. And since then, she’d been trying to prove how nice and normal she was. This was the best of both worlds… even if it was completely fake.
Davis unbuttoned his jacket revealing more of the vest that had lust curling into a ball in her stomach and slipped into the booth next to her. “Uh, don’t you want to sit on that side?” Eden asked.
“Why would I want to be that far away from my stunning girlfriend?” Davis asked threading his fingers through her hair playfully.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. His fingers in her hair, the proximity of his body to hers. His hard thigh was pressed against hers. She was getting dizzy.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You look like you’re going to faint.”
Cheeks flaming Eden picked up her menu. “I was just playing the awe-struck lover,” she insisted.Or lust-struck hater.
She made herself busy trying to focus on the calamari appetizer description.
“Hey, aren’t the Berkowiczes in the B.C.?” Davis asked, sliding his arm around her shoulders.
Eden was suddenly breathless. “Yes. Why?” she squeaked.
“Two o’clock.” Davis leaned in to nuzzle her neck, and Eden had to force her eyelids open to scan the room. She felt like he was pumping an aphrodisiac through his pores, and if she didn’t get some space between them, she’d do something stupid… like Davis.
Rainbow and Gordon were cozied up at a table with Ellery, her husband Mason, and Kathy Wu.
“I guess we’ve got an audience to perform for,” Eden said, pretending to be enthralled with the gold flecks in Davis’s warm, brown eyes. Like molten milk chocolate.
“Is this okay?” Davis asked, his voice husky, as his fingers stroked her shoulder.
She nodded in slow motion, her all-for-show smile wavering. She was supposed to hate this man. Not only had the resentment been bred into her, but she had her own personal experience of the Gates family douchebaggery. Why then did her traitorous body want to snuggle a little closer to his warmth? Why did her fingers itch to rake through his hair? And why the hell were her nipples trying to slice their way through her bra?
She knew the answer. She just didn’t want to face it.
“I should probably know how you like to be touched.” Davis’s voice was low, almost threatening. Eden’s underwear spontaneously caught fire. She pressed her thighs together in an attempt to suffocate the flames.
She swallowed hard and then choked on her own saliva. Desperately, she fumbled for her water glass.
“Are you all right?” Davis asked, patting her on the back.
Get it together, she told herself. She was not some sex-starved teenager with heart eyes. She was a damn grown woman with ambition and a brain and great shoes who ran a successful business. She was no longer an eyeliner-abusing high school junior desperate for love.
“Fine,” she gasped out. “Absolutely fine.”
She wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes and made herself settle stiffly against Davis’s arm.
“I like having my hair played with,” she told him and watched those brown eyes narrow. “And I love skin on skin contact.” Eden leaned into him and boldly placed her hand on his thigh.
He flinched as if she’d just tried to punch him in the balls, and she grinned wickedly.
It was Davis’s turn to reach for his water glass. He drank deeply, emptying it in three quick swallows.
Eden wiggled in her seat, confident that she’d just won some control back.
“Welcome to Villa Harvest.” Their server was a shaggy-haired bean pole.
“Rupert, when did you start working here?” Eden asked. Rupert was the famously terrible waiter at John Pierce Brews—and Sunny’s on again off again boyfriend. Emma Vulkov, brewery manager, had fired and rehired him twice now.
Rupert brushed his sheepdog bangs out of his eyes. “Oh, hey, Eden.” His voice belonged to a 1990s California surfer. “I’m picking up a couple of shifts here every week. Emma needs some space from me sometimes.”
