But he’s already moved on, launching into praises of the duck.
The call comes halfway through the entrées, right after we’ve started a second bottle of wine. Calder looks sheepish as he tugs the buzzing phone from his pocket.
“I’m sorry. I thought I turned this off.” But as his thumb moves to the power button, his eyes flick down at the screen and he frowns.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Forgive me, Lily,” he says. “Do you mind if I…”
“Go ahead.”
He gives a nod and answers the call. Normally I knock off a few points if a guy pulls out his cell on a date, but Calder’s been dealing with a lot recently, so I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Still, I’m only expecting him to exchange a few quick words with his lawyer or something, so it’s a bit of a shock when he stands up.
“I’ll be right back,” he tells me.
I watch his retreating form as he weaves through the dining room, back toward the restaurant entrance, then I take up my fork and grab another piece of duck. I pick around the various plates of food, trying a little bit of everything as I wait. But as the minutes tick by and Calder still doesn’t return, I start to get a little antsy.
He probably just doesn’t want to discuss delicate financial matters in a room full of people, I tell myself. Even in this secluded corner, there’s no telling who might hear something. He’s doing his best to protect what’s left of his family name. I refuse to fault him for wanting a little privacy.
But it’s impossible to keep my gaze from drifting back to the door again and again. I try to distract myself with the food, tearing my way through the rest of the duck even though I’m more than full at this point. I’m already digging into the venison steak by the time I finally spot him moving back across the restaurant toward me.
He looks tense, scattered. His brows are drawn together, and he jerks his hand through his hair as he strides back toward me. When he sees me watching him, though, his hand drops and he puts on a smile.">He shrugs. “I’m sorry about that,” he says when he rejoins me at the table. He tips my head up, kisses me sweetly on the lips. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“You better,” I joke.
His smile widens, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“Of course.” He says it too quickly, too lightly. “It was just Tim. He had a few questions for me.”
He’s being purposefully vague, and though I don’t want to pry, I also don’t want him to have to deal with this on his own.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“It’s nothing, I promise.” He grabs my hand and brings it to his lips, kisses the fingers one by one. “Certainly not important enough to spoil our date.”
I want to believe him, but as the night progresses,an style=" font-size:1.0rem" aid="R0">’s clear he’s preoccupied. Or maybe “preoccupied” isn’t the right word—it’s as though he’s trying too hard to pretend that nothing’s wrong. He’s still sweet, complimentary—but there’s a formality to it that wasn’t there before. The anxious awkwardness I feared earlier returns in full force. Something’s shifted between us, and I don’t know how to fix it.
But I’ll be damned if I don’t try.
“You have to taste this,” I say, offering him a bite of the rich marquise cake from among our spread of desserts.
Calder plays along, opening his mouth for my fork. His eyes never leave my face, but his intent gaze makes it all the easier to sense the distraction lingering beneath.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” I ask after I’ve set down my fork again.
“Of course,” he says. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind recently. But I don’t want to think about any of that right now. I’m here, with you, and that is what I want to focus on.” He raises my hand to his mouth once more, only this time he plants a kiss on my palm. The he">He shrugs. I offer him a smile, but his answer doesn’t completely satisfy me. Something happened during that call, whether he wants to admit it or not. But I don’t want to spend the rest of our date arguing over what may or may not be my business. Calder and I aren’t used to leaning on each other for emotional support just yet. In the meantime, our time together is an escape—a few moments stolen away from the ups and downs of everyday life. I can still be that for him, if nothing else.
By the time dinner is over and he’s driving me back to my car, I feel much better. I was putting too much pressure on us too soon. I had an amazing time tonight, and I’m looking forward to showing Calder exactly how amazing.
He insists on following me back to my apartment and “walking me to my door.” The entire drive there I imagine exactly what I’m going to do to him—how I’m going to touch and taste and tease him. How I’m going to get him back for leaving me without my underwear all night.
When we get to my apartment building, he follows me up the steps toward my door, and the butterflies return to my stomach. Why the hell am I so nervous? Calder is nervous, too—or am I just reading too much into the way he curls and uncurls his fingers around his keys? Have years of dealing with that uncomfortable post-date will-he-or-won’t-he dance at the door conditioned me to expect the worst?
“So,” I say, trying to make light of my nerves. “Should I be worried that you’re going to sleep with me and never call again?”
He takes the joke well, at least. He chuckles as his fingers close around the keys once more, and his free hand moves to my waist.
We’ve reached the door now, and he turns so that he’s facing me. He looks as if he wants to say something, but the words never come. Instead, he just stands there, staring down at me, and I can almost feel the distance stretching between us.
Time to nip that in the bud.
I grab him by the front of the shirt and yank him down to me, capturing his mouth with my own. He gets over the initial shock surprisingly fast. Before I can even catch a breath, he’s moved—forcing me back against the door, trapping me beneath his body. His lips force mine apart, his hands run up and down my hips, my waist, my breasts…
Any awkwardness I feel disappears with his touch. With the heat of him, the taste of him, the smell of him. This is how we connect, how we communicate—through our bodies. I know everything he can’t say, and he glass of champagne.