Page 25 of Nathan

He picks up my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Not even close.”

Staying annoyed at Nate is like swimming against a riptide: impossible. And he knows it, too. Those dimples of his stay in place the entire drive to the restaurant, but when he parks in front of a uniformed valet outside one of the best restaurants in town, I groan. This isn’t a jeans and top kind of place—at least for women—but more a cocktail dress purchased from some exclusive boutique on Rodeo Drive kind of place.

I bite the soft skin inside my mouth and side-eye Nate. “Can we go somewhere else?”

He frowns. “Don’t you like Italian food?”

“Oh, it’s not that.” I fiddle with the hem of my top, putting a crease in the material. Terrific. Now I look even scruffier.

“Then, what?”

My chin scrapes my chest. “If I’d known you were planning on bringing me here, I’d have put on a dress or something. I mean, I don’t have any that are very smart, but smarter than jeans and a?—”

He cuts me off, not by interrupting, but by kissing me. And it’s not a peck either. It’s a full-on, heavy-duty kiss that sends lust careening through my stomach, and scrunches my toes inside my shoes.

“You’re fucking adorable.” He draws back, his eyes boring into mine. “And if I have a single complaint about the way you’re dressed, it’s that you’re wearing far too many clothes for my liking.” He shrugs. “As for this place, if they have a problem with you, I’ll have a problem with them.”

He climbs out of the car, and my eyebrows shoot upward. Nate O’Reilly is a full-of-surprises kind of guy, and the more time I spend with him, the more I like him. Not in a “he’s my fantasy fuck” kind of way, but more because he’s just a really great guy.

He rounds the hood and opens my door. After helping me out, he tosses his keys to the valet, not even waiting for a ticket like normal people would. I guess they know who he is so there isn’t the same need with him.

“Mr. O’Reilly.” The maître d’ smiles broadly and holds out his hand. Nate releases me so he can shake it. “How wonderful to see you again.”

“Hey, Charlie. How’re things?”

Charlie taps on a keyboard and then picks up two menus. “I can’t complain. Follow me, please.”

He leads us into the restaurant. I try to keep facing forward, but I still catch the odd stare cast our way.

They’re staring at him, not you.

At least I hope that’s the case. Nate cuts a much more dashing figure than me, so it makes logical sense that he’d be the one to draw the eye. He draws my eye. All the damn time.

“Is this table satisfactory, Mr. O’Reilly?”

Nate glances around and then points at a booth a few feet away. “We’ll take that one.”

Charlie follows his gaze while I shrink in on myself, horrified. I rarely go to restaurants, but I never, ever question the table I’m given. Charlie, though, seems unperturbed. He nods, then briskly changes course. Nate lets me sit down first, and instead of sitting opposite, he slides along the bench next to me.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he says, taking the menus. “Do you want some champagne, Titch?”

I shake my head. “I don’t like champagne. Tastes like vinegar.”

Nate laughs while Charlie’s eyes widen in shock at my blunt response. Well, too bad. I’m not putting on airs and graces for anyone.

“Wine instead?” Nate asks.

I nod.

“Some still water and a bottle of Montrachet it is, Charlie.”

While Nate buries his head in the menu, I take the opportunity to look around. This is what Dad would have called a fancy-pants place, all marble, granite, and expensive lighting. If only he could see me now. And wait until I tell Elva. My sister will probably turn green with envy.

But when I check out the menu for myself, an uncomfortable feeling steals over me. The price of a single steak would almost pay for a day of my mother’s care. It’s obscenely over-the-top, especially as steak costs less than ten bucks a pound at the store where I work. My stomach growls at the smells coming from the kitchen and nearby tables, but I can’t, in all good conscience, stuff my face with overpriced food in a pretentious restaurant that only exists because the rich and famous want to feel special.

Then I turn the menu over, and my stomach flips in a really nasty way. How much? For a bottle of wine? Oh no, no, no.

“What’ll you have?” Nate asks, oblivious to my dismay. “The filet is good, obviously, but the sea bass isn’t bad either if you prefer fish.” When I don’t say a word, he frowns. “I haven’t tried the vegetarian menu, but I’m sure it’s perfectly edible. And there’s always pasta.”

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