Page 25 of His Curvy Temptation

Deepti laughs.

“You’re a good friend, you know,” she says. “But you’re a terrible actress. Pretending to be shocked that Aiden cheated on me when you called it from the very beginning. But I appreciate your effort.”

“I do my best,” I reply, giving her a hug. “Fuck him. Maybe I can find out if Elijah has a brother, or something.”

“Please do,” she says. “Or better yet, a twin or a clone!”

* * *

I changethree more times before I finally come back to the purple dress. The tried and true stretchy fabric has never let me down, and even with a few extra pounds on me, fits me well and flatters my figure. It’s also got enough room in it for me to actually eat a full meal — no sucking it in required.

Though when my eyes land on Elijah tonight waiting for me by his car, I’m not so sure that I’ll be able to eat dinner tonight anyway. How could I when he’s looking at me with so much intensity, so much desire, that my feet can barely walk me to the car in their strappy nude heels?

“You look great,” Elijah says as he opens the door for me. I climb inside the luxurious car, feeling his eyes on my backside as I do so. He shuts the door and rounds the front of the car, getting in on the driver’s side.

“I was surprised to see it’s just you,” I say. “I figured you have your driver take you everywhere. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Normally, yes,” he says, starting the engine. “But for tonight, I thought it would be nice to have some privacy. Din’t you think so?”

“Definitely.”

I focus on my breathing as he drives me into the city, hardly able to pay attention to the small talk he’s making as we head towards the restaurant he picked out for us tonight. He’s talking about work, about the city, asking me light questions about the rest of my week, about the spa, and other topics. I give short answers, hardly aware of what I’m saying or how far we've driven. All I can think is that I’m in Elijah Stone’s car, this man who is so good looking that he seems like he’s not real, like he’s from some other planet or from the pages of a celebrity magazine. Except even though he’s physically perfect, he’s also…not. He’s rough around the edges. Unpolished. Not perfectly refined, like some of the other clients at the spa. He wears nice suits, good cologne, and there’s a watch on his wrist that could probably pay off my student loans and more.

Yet, even with all of this, I still notice the little things. A small scar on his jaw, his crooked smile, the way his speech pattern weaves in and out of formal talk, slipping into working class slang here and there.

He’s gruff. And yet he seems like he’s doing his best to be a gentleman tonight, to show me a good time and to be charming.

The fact that he’s trying is endearing. And flattering.

Is he doing this for me? Because he likes me? Could Deepti be right about his intentions after all?

“This is my favorite restaurant,” Elijah says as the valet pulls away with his car. “I’ve always wanted to take someone special to it.”

I glance at him, my cheeks coloring at the implication that I’m ‘someone special’ to him. He’s also implying that he hasn’t taken many others to this restaurant…that he doesn’t have a lot of people in his life, a lot of women in his life, who he counts as ‘special.’

“What’s your favorite thing to order?” I ask as the hostess shows us to a private table in the back. He pulls my seat out for me and then pushes me in before taking his own seat. Around us there are dark green ivy plants on ledges, spilling down walls, and ivory candles flicker from every available surface.

It’s…romantic. And secluded. Almost as though we’re not in a restaurant at all, but in a private garden where it’s just the two of us.

“My favorite thing to order,” Elijah muses. “Well, theonlything I ever order is the filet mignon. Caesar salad on the side.”

“You’ve never ordered anything else?” I ask. “Really?”

“Really,” he says. “It’s a good filet. What can I say?”

I shake my head and look at the short but delicious menu in front of me. It’s printed in dark gold and black ink on thick card stock, and the fact that not a single item has a price beside it tells me that I don’t evenwantto know how much any of it costs. Especially the filet mignon.

“I wouldn’t be able to resist trying everything on this menu,” I confess, looking back up at him. “I mean, how do you only stick to one thing?”

“It’s just how I am,” he replies. “I know what I like. I’m not interested in sampling other things, things that aren’t the very best. I want what I want. Nothing less, nothing else.”

His eyes have gone dark and they’re aimed square at me. I shift in my seat, pressing my thighs together.

“Why do I feel like you’re not talking about the filet mignon anymore?” I ask quietly.

“Because I’m not,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting a little.

I am lost, unsure of what to say next. Thankfully, the waiter saves me the trouble of having to think of anything to say, interrupting us to inquire about our drink orders. I let Elijah choose a wine for us and when the waiter brings it to us, he samples it and gives a curt nod of approval before the waiter pours our glasses, leaving the bottle on the table between us.

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