Page 8 of Shortcake
“Oh sure. All the time.” He said it so casually as he flipped open his menu and sent me a wink over top that I giggled. I actually giggled like a damn schoolgirl.
Our server came back and presented Brawny with the bottle. Brawny leaned over and did a quick sweep of the label with his gaze before giving a single nod. “Please, let the lady take the first sip.”
Oh boy, Brawny. That was the wrong call.
The server popped the bottle open and poured me a taste. Sensing my nervousness, Brawny tapped my shin gently beneath the table. “Relax,” he said. “There’s no wrong answer when tasting wine.”
Well, judging by our server’s scowl, I didn’t think that was entirely true.
That little tap of his toe turned into a game of footsie as he slid his foot down, landing it beside mine, still touching me.
Keeping my eyes on his, I pulled the glass to my lips and took a slow sip of the wine.
“Well?” he pressed. “What do you taste?”
I swallowed and this glass was significantly more delicious than the Moscato I’d ordered. “I taste… citrus. Maybe lime. Or um, grapefruit?” He nodded, encouraging me to go on. “And honey. It’s weird, but it also tastes a little herbal, too. And it tingles… like, um, pop rocks.”
Brawny’s crooked smile widened. “The most important question, though… Do you like it?” His voice was soft, the antithesis to the hard lines of his clenched jaw and furrowed brow.
His indigo eyes darkened and fell to my lips.
Honestly, I didn’t know what to feel in that moment. I was used to being desired. I was used to being stared at, leered at, by men in bars and clubs. But there was something different about this. He didn’t look at me like I was a piece of meat. He looked at me like he was interested in me. In my thoughts. And feelings.
He didn’t look at me like he wanted to fuck me… but rather, like he wanted to make love to me.
That furtive thought caused a painful ache between my thighs and I clenched them together, for some small relief. I found myself stretching my legs out so that my toe could skim up his calf as I answered, “I do like it,” my voice way huskier than I intended. “Ireallylike it.”
* * *
“I’m sorry…did you just use the termspaghettiwesterns?” I was laughing so hard tears were streaming from my eyes. “What the hell is that?”
“You’re telling me you’ve never heard of the term spaghetti western before?” He gaped at me, incredulous. “They’re low-budget westerns made in the 60s and 70s in Italy. Well actually, in Italy, Spain, and France. But the phrase spaghetti western was coined by a Spanish critic.”
We’d only been here for twenty minutes, and already my cheeks hurt from smiling. “To be fair, I don’t watchanywesterns. Spaghetti, linguine, macaroni… or otherwise.”
“You haven’t seenanywesterns!?” he repeated, gaping at me.
I shrugged, fighting my grin.
“Not even Clint Eastwood?”
“Not even Clint Eastwood,” I repeated. “Wait… does Million Dollar Baby count as a western?”
“Definitely not,” he scoffed.
“Then no. I’ve never seen any westerns.”
He leaned on the table, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Officer Cavitysearch, I’m sorry to tell you, but that is a violation of the gravest kind.”
“Is that so?” I asked as I drained the last of my wine. I hadn’t even set the glass down yet when he was leaning over to pour me more.
“Itis.”
“Then tell me… haveyouseen The Vampire Diaries? Now that is classic.”
He grinned. “I have seen The Vampire Diaries, actually. Or, well, some episodes.”
“And?”
