Page 72 of The Playboy

“Are you telling me you’re open-minded?” I asked.

He laughed. “No. There’s one way to do things, and that’s my way, but I’m still willing to listen, and if the opposing side is compelling enough, I might be persuaded.” He pointed at the top of the menu. “Tell me … what’s your flavor?”

“Sushi.” I laughed. “I guess that’s not a flavor, is it?”

“When it comes to a milkshake, I would hope not.” He cleared his throat. “Everyone has a go-to. What’s yours?”

“Coffee.”

“I can hang with that. But if you’d said vanilla, you’d have had to sell me on it—and that’s probably an example of something that, regardless of your fight, I couldn’t be persuaded on.”

Even a simple conversation was full of weight when it came to him.

“Is vanilla too simple for you?”

He rolled up the sleeves of his button-down, the veins in his forearms popping, the muscle corded and defined. “It’s like celery. It’s just so bland.”

I whispered, “I hate vanilla.”

“Everyone should hate vanilla.”

Before I could even think of a response, the waitress appeared with a small pad in her hand. “What can I get you?”

“Two vanilla milkshakes, please.” I smiled.

And Macon laughed. “She’s joking.” He winked at me, appreciating my humor. “A coffee milkshake for the lady, and I’ll take chocolate. We’ll also go with the appetizer platter.”

“Easy enough.” She collected one menu. “I’ll leave the other menu in case you want to order more.”

Once she was gone, I voiced, “Who orders an entire platter of food when I just told you I wasn’t hungry?”

“Once you see it, you’ll be tempted. You’ll take a bite, and you’ll want more. And more.” The smile was back, but just halfway, showing enough of his teeth that I watched him nip his bottom lip. “The same way you’ve been doing to me since the first time I saw you. I’ve smelled. I’ve tasted. And now, I want more.” He let those words simmer through me, and as he turned quiet, the look in his eyes became more dominant than they had been all night.

There was something different about the way he was gazing at me now versus all the other times.

If I could see inside his head, which I wanted to, I was positive it would be so busy that I wouldn’t be able to follow all the different streams of thought.

“I want to know something.”

I’d suspected as much. I’d felt something coming.

I took a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for the unexpected. “Okay.”

“And I want you to be honest with me.”

An immense amount of pressure began to push against my chest, causing my legs to straighten and cross again. “Ask me.”

“Why did it feel like something happened between us that I’m unaware of, and that’s why you were so standoffish when I approached you at the club?”

“Unaware of?”

I knew exactly what he meant. I just needed to buy myself time to come up with an appropriate response.

If I told him why I was angry, then I’d have to admit that I’d seen him in the bar with that woman, that it’d looked like they were seconds away from hooking up. And then I’d have to explain why I had been there and all about my job—something I just didn’t want to do. I wasn’t trying to hide my employment; I wasn’t embarrassed by it. I was proud of the fact that out of the forty-seven housekeepers, there were only three other women who had been there longer than I had. That I was about to celebrate my four-year work anniversary.

But something was stopping me from telling him. Like the fact that the dreamy suite he’d taken me to on our second night together was in actuality the room I cleaned for a living. It made the moment feel almost tainted.

Maybe I just wasn’t ready to give him more.

---