Page 30 of Under the Mistletoe
“Well, we both need to eat, and I would like to know what findings you came across this afternoon with your head so buried in your computer screen.” It’s work, York. Work.
“Of course.” She shakes her head a little before she grins. “I could eat a horse…”
I laugh as we walk out of the office. “Would Italian do?” I ask as we step into the lift, the office quiet, most people already gone.
“Stop teasing me. Pasta is my favorite food.” She groans, and I need to stifle my grin again. A constant feeling I get around her.
“Pasta it is, then. Let’s go. Gordon’s waiting,” I tell her as we exit at the lobby, a few people milling around, all looking at us as we step out of the elevator. I grip my briefcase tight and pocket my other hand so I don’t place it on her back where I want to settle it.
“Sir.” Gordon opens the back door as we walk outside, the coolness hitting my cheeks. I feel snow in the air.
“Hey, Gordon.”
My driver grins at Jessica like she’s an old friend. Jealousy shoots through me, even though he’s married with kids and grandkids. It’s a feeling that builds in me every time others get near her.
“Evening, Miss Johnson.”
We slide in, the closure of the door sealing our privacy, and I blow out a breath.
“You work too hard,” I tell her, watching her rub her eyes.
“You're my boss; you're not supposed to say that.” Her grin lightens my shoulders.
“I appreciate your work ethic, but I don’t want you to burn yourself out.”
“This coming from the man who starts his day at six in the morning and practically works through the night.” She looks at me pointedly.
“Yeah, okay, point taken.” I rub my hand over my lips so she doesn’t see the grin. The traffic is thick, so it takes us a little time before Gordon pulls up to my favorite restaurant.
“Fiorella?” She blanches.
“I think we deserve it.” I know I shouldn’t, but as Gordon steps out and we’re surrounded by the quiet of the car, I stretch across and grab her hands, entwining my fingers with hers, and just for a moment, everything feels right with the world.
“You deserve it,” I reinforce as her fingers grip on to mine just as warmly, before her stomach interrupts us again.
“Let’s go.” I open my door and step out, waiting at the side of the car for her, leaning in and offering my hand again.
She takes it with an ease that shouldn’t be present, and as she steps out, I’m so captivated by her that I don’t immediately notice the photographers nearby. It’s not until I hear the familiar sound of their cameras clicking that I look up and notice them. My jaw tightens. I didn’t expect them. They don’t usually follow me around like this. Sure, I see them from time to time, but this is not a restaurant that they usually hang outside of which is exactly why I frequent it so much. Jessica lowers her head, clearly not comfortable around them, and my jaw clenches, hating that she’s being photographed when she doesn’t want to be. But I pull in a breath. It’s a work dinner after all and I walk us quickly inside.
The soft music playing eases my tension, the candlelight flickering around the room helping to do the same, and a waiter’s quick to take us to my table.
“You have your own table?” she whispers, and I grin, leading her straight down the back, away from prying eyes.
“I do. It’s my favorite place. The way they cook my steak is unrivaled. It’s a meal I dream about.”
I stand, waiting near her chair, and as she takes a seat, I push her in a little, forcing my hands to stay on the chair and not lift to touch her shoulders and sweep her hair back from her neck so I can kiss her skin like I want to. But then her head turns, and she brushes her hair to the side and my hand moves before I can think better of it. My fingers gently graze her shoulders, running from the bottom of her neck down to her shoulder, the bare skin prickling a little at my touch.
She looks up at me, her glossy lips capturing the reflection from the lights, her eyes wide behind her glasses and searching mine. My nostrils flare, pulling in the oxygen I need as I feel her lean back into my hand, her silently telling me she maybe wants me as much as I want her. Clearing my throat, I move to my chair.
“Thank you.” I catch the pink blush of her cheeks as I sit down, the waiter filling our water glasses and opening a bottle of wine in an instant.
“Your usual, sir?”
I nod. They know me well enough to know what I like.
“And you, madam?” The waiter looks at Jessica, and I watch, seeing her eyes run through the menu, wondering what she’ll pick. He’s probably expecting her to choose a nice salad with dressing on the side.
“The Parmigiano-Reggiano spaghetti, please.”
