Brock’s full lips pursed. “You’re really going out with him on Saturday?”
“Yes.” I glanced at my computer. “So, is there anything else you need?”
His gaze hardened and a look of almost disbelief settled into his face. “You’re really going to do this?”
“Do what?”
“Is this how it’s going to be?”
I held his stare. “I don’t understand what you mean by that question or the one before it.”
Pushing off my desk, he straightened to his full height. “Oh, I think you do.” And then with that, he pivoted around and stalked out of my office.
And I would barely see him over the rest of the week.
* * *
Saturday evening, I stood in front of the mirror attached to the inside of my closet door. I hadn’t ended up buying a new dress. Instead, I dug one out that I’d bought when I’d been with Ben. It was this simple, but pretty black dress I’d planned on wearing to our anniversary dinner.
A dinner he hadn’t showed up for.
He’d claimed that he’d stayed behind at work and lost track of time, but looking back, there’d probably been a good chance he was just having drinks with some other chick.
I’d tried not to linger on that relationship other than using it as a wakeup call—a rather painful and oftentimes embarrassing one. I didn’t think about Ben a lot, but wearing the dress that had been meant for our anniversary, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was up to now.
And then realized I honestly didn’t care.
The dress was a little tighter than I remembered around my breasts, which were showcased in the heart-shaped neckline. The sleeves were quarter-length, and I liked that, because I’d never been a fan of my upper arms. Ever. The dress followed the curve of my hips and ended just above the thighs.
It had been a long time since I’d worn a dress.
It had been an even longer time since I wore a tight dress.
But I was doing it tonight and I thought I looked pretty amazing. Maybe even hot. Like h-a-w-t hot. My hair was down, parted to my left, and fell in cascading waves. My eyeliner was on point and the matte red lipstick promised to stay on for the next hundred years.
I felt good. Great, even.
Stepping away from the mirror, I walked into my bedroom. The only problem with tonight was that when I thought about my date . . . I didn’t feel anything. No nervousness. No anxiety. Definitely not even a drop of anticipation. It was like I was getting ready to go to the grocery store while looking like the bomb diggity.
And that was just lame, really lame of me.
But if I thought about those early, dark moments with Brock, my stomach fluttered like a nest of birds taking flight, and that was wrong, really wrong.
Like so wrong I needed to bang my head on the wall.
I wasn’t giving Grady a chance. I knew this as I slipped a plain gold bracelet on. I’d even thought that he hadn’t been interested and was just coming with excuses, but he obviously had been. Tonight would be different, because I would be a hundred percent focused on him, and if he tried to kiss me, I would let him.
And it wouldn’t be a drunken kiss in the middle of the night either.
Snatching my black purse off my bed, I walked past the small low-back chair by the door, dragging my hand over Brock’s jacket like . . . geez, like a total freak. I hadn’t given it back. I’d totally forgotten about it when he was over last Friday, and he hadn’t asked for it back, so I’d kept it.
Not my proudest moment.
Grabbing the military-style jacket out of the hall closet, I swooped down and scratched Rhage on the top of the head. “I’ll be back soon.” I pulled away before he made mincemeat out of my hand. “Or maybe I won’t be back at all tonight.”
Rhage’s ears flattened.
After making sure there was a bowl of kitty food in the kitchen, I left my apartment. Grady was waiting for me just inside the very same steakhouse Brock and I had been at with the potential investors. There weren’t many options for sort of upscale restaurants in the county.
A wide smile broke out across his face as he opened his arms. “You look amazing.”
“Thank you.” I gave him a quick hug and then stepped back. “So do you.”
He glanced down at the loose khakis with a shrug; they were the kind of pants I couldn’t imagine Brock wearing.
Whoa. Why in the hell was I thinking about that?
Grady took my hand as the hostess appeared, guiding us down the narrow aisle toward our booth near a roaring, crackling fireplace. The table was long enough to seat four people, but still somehow dainty with its white linen tablecloth, flickering tea candles, and delicate wine glasses. When I’d been here with Brock, we’d been seated in the dining area beyond the fireplace, where there were tables and no booths and less foot traffic.
I sat across from Grady, and when he ordered a bottle of wine, I thought that might be a good idea. During the drive here, I’d become oddly tense.
“I’m glad we finally made it,” he said. “I was so disappointed to have to push this back. I really wanted to see you.”
“I am so sorry about when I had to reschedule,” I said automatically. “The work dinner was a last-minute thing.”
“Tell me about it,” he requested with genuine interest.
So I did as the wine arrived and we placed our orders. When our food arrived, a chicken breast for him and a filet, of course, for me, I’d managed to shake the weird tension and found I was enjoying myself without having to down half a bottle of wine.
Grady was beyond nice. And he was smart. And kind.