Page 9 of Hot Stuff

“Yes! Please.” Mary grinned as I handed her the menu I had hardly looked at before walking away.

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Guess you’re going to have to trust me.” She shrugged. Her dark eyes almost sparkled. “So, tell me about yourself, Dan.”

“You could always call me Mr. Hot Stuff. I kinda like it.” I teased. She rolled her eyes.

“Shut up.” She laughed. “You know you’re good looking.”

“Maybe back in the day. Now I’m a little old.” I told it like it was.

“No, you’re not.”

“Honey, I’m a lot older than you.”

“Hmm… maybe.” She bit her lower lip, and my hands itched to make her stop. “But maybe that’s a good thing?”

“Oh?” Fucking hell. Did my girl like older men? Could I be someone she would possibly be interested in? The way she looked at me, and the way her gaze skated down to my hands and shoulders and biceps, made me think I might be that lucky.

“Well, yeah.” She cleared her throat. “I just mean women mature faster than men.”

“That is definitely right.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?” If I don't mind? Fucking hell, she was adorable when she was being polite. Something possessive and dominating washed over me. I wanted her to feel free to ask me anything because she knew I was hers.

Hers?

“How old am I?” I repeated, trying to put off the inevitable. This was it. Would her pretty face crumble in disgust when I told her I could probably be old enough to be her father? The curiosity in her eyes sparked hope. “Forty,” I answered honestly.

When she didn’t say anything, I got nervous.

Me! Nervous! I’d never been nervous! Amped up on adrenaline before and after missions? Absolutely! But nervous? That was new, and I had a feeling all sorts of things were going to feel new with her.

The waitress showed up and dropped off two huge plates with a pile of fries and onion rings and what looked like a BBQ grilled chicken sandwich next to it. Then she brought over two cherry Cokes I was pretty sure had more maraschino cherries in it than ice.

“If you guys need anything else, just give me a holler.” The waitress smiled and walked off.

“What do you think?” she asked, still not giving me a clue about what she thought about our obvious age difference.

“I think this looks really damn good.”

“You have no idea.” She grinned saucily as she grabbed a fry off my plate and chewed on it. I’d never liked sharing food. But with her, I didn’t mind. If anything, I fucking loved it.

“I’m twenty-five,” she shared after taking a bite of her sandwich.

Twenty-five. Shit. I'm fifteen years older than her.

“Is the age thing a problem for you?”

“Depends,” she answered without meeting my gaze.

“On?” I found myself asking, ignoring my food. I was starving, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

“What should I mind about it? We just met. There isn’t anything going on—" My hand reached out for hers. It had been innocently resting on the table, and I couldn’t help it. The size difference blew my mind. Like a baseball mitt engulfed hers.

“I don’t think it’s presumptuous to think you might be interested in me like I am in you."

“You’re interested?” she asked almost like she couldn’t believe it. How the hell was that possible? Were the men in this city stupid and blind? How the hell wasn’t she taken?

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