Page 27 of Van Cort
“I didn’t ask where we’d be going tonight, I’ve learned that much,” I muse.
“It’s a quiet but excellent restaurant. Somewhere with some personality. You liked the jazz?” He looks over at me.
He already knows the answer. “I did, thank you.”
He parks up to the curb and comes around to open my door, every inch the gentleman he looks. He opens the front door to the restaurant, we’re seated, and he offers me small, reassuring glances at each step, as if he’s still gauging me – deciding, possibly – if this is a good idea.
Attempting to keep my mask in place is harder than I thought it would be. After agreeing to this date, I had my own little tantrum with myself for being so fickle and weak to allow him to convince me for a third chance. I know what my weak spot is when it comes to Everett Van Cort. It’s not just the way he looks in the fine threads, or his reserved mind, it’s the glimpse he gave me under that tightly fastened button, too. Also, the fact that he wanted me as much as I wanted him and the wall was the fastest option because he couldn’t possibly wait? Hot.
What will the terms for this date be after that?
“White wine?” he asks as we’re seated.
“Please. But just the glass. I have a meeting in the morning.” Boundaries. I need them all around me and fortified. “At my job. Where I make my own money.”
He snorts. “Of course.” He orders sparkling and still water, and a small glass of wine for me.
My eyes keep wanting to look him over, ever-eager to settle on his face - his eyes, and I’m fighting the urge to speak, too. I’m not filling in the slightly uncomfortable silence that’s settled over us, no matter how desperate I feel to do so. The need to please this man has withered and is doing my confidence the world of good.
With our drinks delivered, I’m only too glad to reach for the wine.
“I don’t often see women for more than a few dates,” he states.
The glass in my hand pauses in mid-air as I feel the truth of that statement. “Wow, okay. That explains a lot, actually.” I bring the glass to my lips and drain half of it in two large gulps.
“But I don’t want that to influence our time together moving forward. I want us to start again, if you will.”
“A clean slate?” I clarify.
“Maybe. I’m just ensuring we both understand each other and where this might go.”
“I’m not sure if this is your attempt at flattery, Mr Van Cort, but you did a much better job at our first meeting.”
“Is that what you want? Flattery? Given how beautiful you are, I’d have thought you’d be looking for something a little deeper, especially given your job.”
“Oh, boy. Is this why you don’t date? Because you have no concept of how to talk to a woman beyond getting her to drop her panties for you?”
My mind thinks back to our walk on the beach. The comfortable air between us, and I take a breath. His jaw tightens, and he takes a sip of his water. Maybe our verbalsparring is getting to him, and I suddenly want to crack him open and have him like he was at the weekend.
“A clean slate, Andie,” he repeats, a bite in his words, and I can’t help the little twitch of my lips. “I want to continue to see you if you’d like that.”
“But?”
“If you can’t give me that, then perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. I’m being honest with you. You need to do the same.” His eyebrow lifts in challenge, and I take a moment.
I drain the rest of my wine and wish I’d ordered a bigger glass. He didn’t have to tell me his past pattern with women, and he’s not stupid enough to think that wouldn’t paint him in a bad light.
“Fine. But, I told you on the phone, this isn’t a deal I’d recommend. You’ve broken my trust, and while I may be convinced to start over, that trust won’t be won back easily. That’s my counteroffer. No assumed trust.”
“That’s fair. And something I can work with.” His eyes dip to my glass. “More wine?”
“No. Water’s fine.” I smile and brush my hand over the braid over my shoulder.
After the slight awkwardness of assessing our date and future interactions in a slightly business-like fashion, we order food and settle into easier conversation.
“Do you like the city?” he asks as I spear my asparagus.
“I love Seattle. It’s got a good mix of business and pleasure.” I can’t help my smile, tugging at my lips at that word when talking to him. “I like to run, which you know.”
