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When she made it to his feet, Phoebe noticed he, too, had shed his shoes, opting to leave his pedicured feet bare as he worked around the table. A thought crossed her mind and she wondered how Quentin would feel if their feet mingled underneath the table. Phoebe bit her lip as a trace of heat saturated her thinking about the simple, yet intimate dance of their toes. Coming out of her reverie, Phoebe breathed a dreamy sigh and sauntered onto the balcony.

“For me?” she said, gaining a closer look at his arrangement.

“Oui, ma dulcinée,” he responded.

Phoebe raised a surprised brow. As long as she’d known Quentin, she’d never heard him speak another language. And although she and her sisters and brothers were fluent in several lingos, it didn’t cross Phoebe’s mind that Quentin would also pick up on some of their studies. It surprised and filled her with a deprivation that had nothing to do with food.

“You know, my lady love sounds so much better in French,” she said.

Quentin’s deep grumbling laughter seared her loins. She’d never felt so turned on and completely set on fire by another human until she neared Quentin. The mere fact that she’d attacked him early in the month at his gym, jumping into his arms like she was a freaky vixen was proof in itself that she had no control over the way her body responded to his imminence, or the way she vibrated from his touch. Or the way her pussy thumped when they kissed. The riveting energy was shocking to her core in the most splendid way.

Quentin pulled out her seat, and Phoebe sat down as he adjusted her chair against the table. A knock on the door sounded before Quentin could claim his seat, and it was just as well since, he knew it must have been room service.

“Good timing,” Quentin said when the door opened. “Follow me.”

The server pushed the cart inside and trailed Quentin across the massive expanse of the suite to the balcony where Phoebe waited patiently. One by one, the server removed the dish tops while announcing their food. Steam rose from the freshly prepared stew, and Phoebe’s stomach rumbled just looking at the cuisine.

“Thank you, sir,” Quentin said.

“Would you like me to set your tables, monsieur?” the server asked.

“I think I can take it from here,” Quentin responded.

“As you wish,” the server dipped his head into a slight bow and turned to Phoebe, “Mademoiselle,” greeting her and saying goodbye at the same time.

The server turned to leave the room, and Quentin followed him to the door. As the server crossed the threshold, Quentin offered him a fifty-dollar tip.

“For your troubles,” Quentin said.

“Ah, thank you, sir, but it’s no trouble at all, I aim to please.”

“Which we appreciate, have a good day.”

Returning to the balcony, it was now Quentin who watched Phoebe add their lunch to their china. “I would’ve taken care of that for you,” he said, claiming his seat.

“You set the table, right?”

Quentin tilted his head in a nod.

“Then you’re good, babe, I think I can handle this part.”

Quentin’s gaze roamed over her chocolate covered skin that spanned down her neck and hid inside the long sleeve cardigan sweater she wore.

“So I was wondering,” Phoebe started, bringing Quentin’s attention from her plump breasts to her luscious lips. Phoebe sat and readjusted her seat, then crossed her legs. “Did you plan the whole thing with the game?”

Quentin’s brows knocked together as he thought.

“I mean,” Phoebe reiterated, “did you purposefully take me to see the Bulls to out us as a couple?”

“To out us?” Quentin questioned.

“I know it sounds ridiculous putting it that way, but I just thought there could’ve been other places we could have gone that would’ve been far less attractive for media outlets.”

“Would you rather I have taken you someplace quieter?”

“No, not necessarily.” Phoebe shrugged. “Just wondering I guess.”

“Are you embarrassed to be on the arm of Chicago’s most notorious playboy?” Quentin pushed on.

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