Page 50 of Wrong Number. Right Don.
“Dinner here?” she asks carefully.
“Actually, I made a reservation, if that’s okay with you. Six p.m.?”
“I’ll have to ask my boss if I can leave early,” she jokes. “He’s a real tyrant.”
“I’m sure I can help with that,” I tease back.
“Well, as long as you’re helping, I think the chances are good. So, yes, I’ll go to dinner with you.”
She slips away to find a vase, and relief pours through me. I wasn’t sure how she’d respond, but it’s good to feel that easy levity between us again.
We meet in the foyer at six sharp, and she lets me help her into the car without protest. The ride to the restaurant is quiet but comfortable. We talk about my mother’s latest obsession, the afternoon soap opera she devours every day.
“I swear, she’s going to be the one writing scripts soon,” Nicole says, laughing softly.
“She’d do a better job than whoever is behind the current storyline,” I mutter.
Nicole just smiles, and I catch her observing me from the corner of my eye. I only hope that whatever she sees puts her at ease.
When we arrive, the maître d’ escorts us to a corner table in the back, secluded from the other patrons. A single candle flickers between us, casting a cozy glow. The bottle of wine I requested ahead of time is already uncorked and breathing. The owner himself comes over to check on us.
Nicole shrugs off her coat, and the candlelight glints off her necklace. She looks stunning, and it takes everything in me not to lean across the table and kiss her right then.
When the waiter returns to pour the wine, I gesture to her glass, but she shakes her head.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” she says.
I should have realized that, of course. She’d skipped wine at the mansion, too. I file away the detail for later.
Dinner passes in a blur of easy conversation and warm glances that linger too long. Nicole is radiant, the dim light making her glow, her eyes bright and animated as she tells me stories of crazy nights in the ER.
When the plates are cleared and the waiter discreetly drops the bill, I reach for my wallet as Nicole speaks.
“Thank you for this,” she says softly. “It was really nice to get out of the house for a few hours.”
I lift my gaze to hers. “You’re welcome,” I tell her earnestly. “You’ve been a godsend to our family. It was the least I could do.”
Her smile falters just slightly. “You don’t owe me anything, Sergei. You pay me pretty damn well; I’m just doing my job.”
I study her, reading every micro-expression. I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table, and hold her gaze.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I tell her seriously. “I owe you a hell of a lot, Nicole. For taking care of my mother. For saving Sasha. For sticking around, even when I know I haven’t been the most forthcoming.”
She shrugs, modest and effortless, like she doesn’t see the impact she’s had on my life in such a short time.
“I’m just doing my job,” she repeats. “And your mom’s doing really well, by the way. She’s walking better, her memory’s sharper. I think she’s almost back to herself.”
Her words send a small jolt of panic through me.
Mom’s close to the end of her recovery, which means Nicole won’t be needed for much longer.
I refuse to let that thought sink in. At least not yet. Not when she’s sitting across from me, her dress hugging her curves, her mouth stained a soft red from dessert, and her smile doing serious damage to my self-control.
“You’ve done more for my family than you know,” I tell her honestly. “I’m glad you agreed to take the job.”
She gives a small nod, and for a second we simply sit, silence stretching comfortably between us. I wish I could stay in this moment, where everything is comfortable and easy. There’s nothing between us except genuine affection.
When we step outside into the crisp night air, I place a hand gently on her lower back, guiding her to the car. She leans into the touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I realize our physical intimacy already feels natural.
