Page 13 of Bourbon Wishes
Themaître d, Diego, holds the door open with a grin. "Ms. Maverick, it's good to see you again."
"Thank you, Diego." I hurry through, fighting another shiver. The low hum of voices and the smell of spices instantly hit me. My stomach growls, my mouth watering. The restaurant at the vineyard is, by far, the best in the area, butDella'sis a close second. "Is Bastian already here?"
"Yes, ma'am. He asked me to bring you to the table as soon as you arrived."
"Of course he did," I grumble, which has Diego's lips twitching. He keeps his opinion to himself, however. He's nothing if not discreet.
He motions for me to follow him.
We wind our way through tables situated to afford diners as much privacy as possible. The candelabra chandeliers hanging over each table provide a soft, intimate glow to the restaurant. It might be my imagination, but I feel like everyone is looking at me.
I have to resist the urge to tug the dress down a little.
I exhale a relieved breath when I see Bastian in the back corner, his suit jacket stretching across his broad shoulders. His dark head is bent as he examines a menu. He's alone at the table, nursing a glass of bourbon. At least whoever we're meeting didn't beat me here. He glances up as we approach, his eyes locking on mine.
For a long moment, he just stares at me, his expression as inscrutable as ever. And then his gaze dips, drifting down my body.
I resist the urge to shiver as it lingers on my breasts. I'm not vain, but I know they look damn good in this dress. The silky black fabric dips low, clinging to my cleavage. It gathers rightbelow, giving me the illusion of a tucked-in waistline instead of highlighting my belly. With the Spanx, I actually look more curvy than round for once.
The dress ends well above mid-thigh, at least six inches above modest and respectable. I'm not sure if it's just the lighting, but it looks like Bastian's eyes darken as they sweep down, lingering on my thighs.
He grunts softly before rising to his feet, all six-foot-four of him encased in black silk, looking like a dream.
Jesus, the man knows how to wear a suit.
"Sorry, I'm late," I mutter. "My car wouldn't start."
His lips compress into a hard, disapproving line. "You need a new car."
"My car is fine, Bastian. I was in a hurry when I got home and forgot to turn the lights off." I take a step toward the chair he holds out for me and then realize the table is set for two. A frown tugs at my lips. "Is this table big enough for a business meeting?"
"A meeting?" Diego asks from where he's standing off to the side. "I was under the impression it would just be the two of you. If there are others joining you, we can certainly move you."
"No need," Bastian says, waving him off. "I've got it from here. Thank you, Diego."
Diego offers the approximation of a bow before rushing off. Probably a good call because I'm already glaring daggers at Bastian as I slide into my seat.
"What's going on?"
"Let me order you something to drink," he says.
"I'm fine. Explain. What is this?"
"Dinner," he says, like it should be obvious, sliding into the seat across from me. His knee bumps mine, sending my heart rate into overdrive. Or maybe that's frustration doing that. "Where the fuck did you get that dress, Constance?"
"The dress store," I retort.
"It's too fucking short."
"And your tie doesn't match your suit."
"What?" His brow furrows as he glances down.
"Different shades of black," I grumble. "My point is, I don't dictate your wardrobe, you don't get to dictate mine. What I wear isn't your business."
"You're my employee. That makes it my business."
I tip my head back, staring up at the rafters as the urge to scream climbs up my throat. I manage to fight it back, barely. And then I count to five, just to make sure it's not going to erupt anyway.
