Page 118 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
“Now that we got that out of the way,” Jack said, “I took the liberty of making an eight o’clock reservation at Balthazar for two tonight.” He gestured between us in case there was any confusion as to who would be on this dinner date.
“How very presumptuous of you. You are a smooth operator, Jack Wells. But you’re not my type.”
“Too charming?”
“Too rich.”
He laughed. “What am I going to do with you? You don’t make it easy on a guy, do you?”
“That’s part of my charm.” I smiled.
He rubbed his hands together. “Good thing I love a challenge. If you don’t come, I’ll be the lonely guy eating at the bar. Have you no heart?”
I laughed then found myself nodding and saying, “Okay, sure.”
This hardly seemed like the ideal time to go on a date, with my impending divorce hanging in the balance. Or maybe it was the perfect time. It was just dinner, not a marriage proposal.
Besides, Jack was fun and being with him was easy. The opposite of Thursday night’s dinner with Gabriel.
I gave myself a onceover in the mirror on the back of my closet door.
The silky black mini skirt was from one of my old collections. I’d paired it with a waistband-grazing cap-sleeved black knit top and strappy killer heels for the win. My usual winged black eyeliner completed the look. Despite Xavi’s attempts to teach me the art of creating a smoky eye, I had yet to master it.
At the last minute, I dug out a red lipstick from my makeup bag and painted my lips red. There. Done. I capped the tube and tossed it into my clutch bag just as the buzzer sounded.
I told Jack I’d meet him at the restaurant, but he insisted on sending a car. Maybe he thought I was a flight risk.
“Be right down,” I said into the intercom.
I locked up behind me and gripped the banister as I descended the stairs. I’d only worn these heels once and now I remembered why. They were designed to look good, not run down the stairs or sprint up city blocks. I probably looked like Bambi on ice, but it was too late to run back up and change my shoes now.
I swung the front door open, expecting to see a driver waiting in a town car.
Instead, I got Gabriel in an ancient white V-neck T-shirt, equally ancient black jeans with holes in the knees, and black combat boots with the laces untied.
He was leaning against a motorcycle, smoking a cigarette, looking like the bad boy of every teenage girl’s fantasies.
When did all this happen?
The guy I’d fallen in love with didn’t smoke cigarettes or drive a motorcycle.
God. He looked so sexy.
Had the temperature suddenly risen twenty degrees? I felt all flushed with fever.
I envisioned myself hopping onto the back of his bike and wrapping my arms around him, splaying my hands across his abs, and pressing my thighs against his as he revved the engine and the vibrations shot through my core.
My thighs clenched.
Bad Cleo. Get a grip. Danger is not sexy.
“You ride a motorcycle now?” Between that and the smoking, he might as well have just shot heroin into his veins and called it a day.
He looked me up and down then flicked his cigarette on the ground, crushed it under his boot, and strode over to me.
“You look beautiful.” He wrapped a lock of my hair around his finger and gave it a gentle tug. My breath caught in my throat, but I tried to steel myself against his charms.
The evening sun slanted across his face and cast it in a warm, golden glow that I wanted to bask in. But the ankh around his neck captured my attention. I wanted to rip it off, crush it under my heel, and toss it into the river.
