Page 23 of Plum

She looks up and blinks, like she’s forgotten I’m sitting across from her.

“Yeah. Thanks.” She sets her glass down on the table with a look of regret.

“Don’t hold back on my account.”

She blushes. Not much. Not enough that anyone else would probably notice, but I’m becoming a Plum expert.

“Don’t worry. I won’t.” She squirms in her seat, straightening her silverware for a minute. I reach into her space for the bottle, and then I refill her glass and top off my own.

“I prefer Dom Perignon myself.” I don’t know what I’m saying. I just want to put her at ease and prevent myself from leaping over the table and dragging her off to the cloakroom, bending her over, and slipping that skin tight dress up over her ass and plunging in until she comes all over my cock. I pull at my collar. It’s so hot in here.

“You don’t have to try to impress me, Clark Kent. I already like you for your money.”

“Clark Kent?”

She shifts in her seat. I don’t think she meant to say that. “You know. With the glasses and the hair and all. You look like Clark Kent.”

“I have so many man-of-steel jokes. None of them are appropriate for polite company.”

“Don’t hold back on my account,” she parrots, and that grin is back. I can’t help but return it, and damn, we don’t feel like strangers, that this is…whatever cheap, dirty thing it is. It feels like we have a secret between us.

I think she feels it, too. A shadow of worry crosses her face before she can hide it.

“What was that?” I reach across the table and dust my fingers down her cheek. She keeps very still, but I can hear her suck in a breath.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She puts her nose in the air. Tries to look stern and unaffected.

“You feel it, too.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“Touching you…it’s like touching a live wire.”

“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“The worst?”

“It’s like the lyrics from some cheesy, off-brand 80’s hair metal band.”

“Like Winger?”

For a second, she forgets to look hard. “Yeah. Like Winger.”

“So, I’m heading for a heartbreak?”

She groans, and there’s that smile again, warm and scrunched up.

As the waiter arrives with our meal, I lean back, school my face again. I’m not used to this kind of banter. Small talk, business, tech, sports. I’m used to that. I usually let Eric take the lead and interject when expected. But this feels so different. Awkward and silly and intense at the same time.

The waiter sets down our plates with a flourish, hovering longer than I’d like. I don’t want anyone near us. The idea of any man noticing Plum puts me on edge. I want to take her out of here, back to my place, but the expression on her face when she sees the squab is too priceless to cut short.

She gingerly pushes the plate to the far edge of the table with her fork. She takes more interest in the lobster, but what she’s really eyeing is my steak.

I take my time cutting it into bites.

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