I stopped swirling, just for a second, before starting up again. He had me there—it had taken him two measly questions to size me up and get me squeamish.
“Then that means you’re a good date.” That seemed a relatively safe response. I smiled, not quite meeting his eyes.
“What if I turn out to be the best date you’ve ever had?” He smiled back, his gaze clinging to mine. My tortilla chip turned to dust in my mouth, and I reached for my water glass, relieved to have a distraction, no matter how fleeting.
I took a long drink, probably too long, but I was racking my brain for the safest response.
“Then you’ll get a full-page write-up in my journal,” I promised, figuring a version of the truth was probably best.
“Not precisely what I was hoping for,” he admitted, his head tipped to the side.
“And,” I hurried on before he could elaborate, “you will have raised the bar for all my future dates.” I was teasing now but urgently hoping he’d drop this line of questioning—I wasn’t about to agree to anything beyond this one date.
He smiled then, a cagey smile that had my pulse zipping with nerves.
“I’m a sucker for a good cause,” he said, twirling his tortilla chip through the salsa.
Sean and I had been steadily working our way through the chips and salsa during the “what-if?” repartee, and now it barely registered that his chip had been around the bowl before. And then it was like fireworks in my head. I had little doubt that tonight would remain uncontested as Best Date Ever, but it eased my mind just a little to discover that, as amazing—not to mention cocky—as he was, the man wasn’t perfect. I’d found a flaw: Sean was a double-dipper.
While I was against this on principle, it didn’t particularly bother me: If I was going to get Sean’s germs, I was likely getting them right now sharing a communal basket of chips, rubbing elbows (and thighs), and breathing the same spicily scented air. And if he should happen to kiss me tonight (please, God!), I’d be well and truly breached. Still, I wasn’t about to let this pass without comment.
“You’re a double-dipper!” I blurted.
Sean took the accusation in stride. “I hate to disappoint you, but no. Just good with my hands, luv.”
Temporarily thrown by the casual endearment, I quickly recovered, turning to argue. But he was faster. Slipping his hand around to cup the back of my neck and tipping his head sideways to speak directly into my ear, Sean made everything else fall away. His voice skittered over my skin and was the cause of widespread goose bumps.
“And I hope it’s not my germs you’re worried over, because I have plans for you. And clearly I have my work cut out for me.” He was dropping a kiss along the curved line of my neck as the waiter approached. As he presented our food on oversized stoneware, warning us of “hot plates,” Sean let his hand slide down, skimming over my shoulder, arm, and finally my thigh as he pulled away.
Every nerve ending was on full alert, so when I stuffed that first oven-hot bite of enchilada into my mouth, my tongue got scalded. I was frantically gulping down ice water when the mariachis materialized at our booth garbed in the traditional black and silver charro suits.
Sean set down his fork and asked, “Are you familiar with the Elvis ballad ‘It’s Now or Never’?”
“The King?” The guitarist looked a tad affronted by the question. “But of course. We play for you?”
“Just the instrumentals, if you don’t mind.” Apparently Sean was not too impressed with the vocal stylings of these men. And here I’d thought they were pretty good.
“Not at all, senor.” The request became a pleasure as Sean slid a few bills into the guitarist’s palm. Pocketing the tip, the trio began their tableside rendition of Elvis’s smoothly persuasive ballad.
“Let’s kick things up a notch, shall we?” His eyebrow winged up in challenge as mine dipped down in confusion.
And then, as the thrill of the trumpet subsided, the voice beside me rose to take its place.
11
It’s Now or Never
My eyes widened, first in shock, then in panic, but I didn’t turn to look at him. This was so utterly unexpected that I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t wired for a serenade. If anything, the very thought of one made me cringe. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate and admire the sentiment and bravado that went into such an undertaking—I did—I definitely did! It was simply that the very idea of it was over-the-top, unnecessary, and just plain awkward. Still, out of politeness, I forcibly subdued my panic and shifted my gaze to my booth companion.
He was staring back at me, daring me to hold his gaze. Somehow I managed it.
He sang the refrain while I drowned slowly in the deep darkness of his voice. The words didn’t even register. It wasn’t until he raised a single eyebrow that things started to click, causing me to raise a rather panicked one right back. Was he literally asking me for a kiss ... for more?
One innocent little kiss probably couldn’t hurt anything ... Although, in all honesty, both times this man had put his lips on me, my world had tipped and twirled in reaction. And it had yet to right itself. My presence here tonight was proof of that.
Watching him, I could easily imagine how he’d looked when he was younger—too perfect for his own good. Time, I’m guessing, hadn’t changed him all that much; life had just sharpened his features, changing mischief into character, innocence into charm, and sweet into sexy. His confidence had probably always been there, behind everything. And why shouldn’t it be? Those eyelashes alone had probably saved him from trouble more times than he’d care to admit.
So, as he sang about my exciting lips and inviting arms, I pondered his and mourned a future absent of sexy little get-togethers. As I watched him, his eyes falling closed on the soulful parts and then flashing open again to gauge my reaction, alternating between serious performer and teasing charmer, playing both roles with gutsy flair, butterflies invaded my heart.
His arm was slung over the back of the seat, and he’d turned into me, seemingly at ease with this whopper of a PDA. The King, believe it or not, had nothing on Sean MacInnes. The song may be a classic, but I’d always felt it belonged to another generation. But now, hearing it sung in the slightly scratchy, very sexy voice of the man cuddled up next to me, it had taken on a whole new dynamic. I’d never felt this kind of pull, this shivery sort of wonder, and for just this one fleeting moment, it was perfect. This, I imagined—I truly hoped—was Romance.
As the song ended with a warning of last chances and a brassy flourish of trumpet, I smiled and applauded right along with the rest of my fellow diners. Impressive talent with an equal dose of daring—watch out, world. Tread very carefully, Nicola James.
After the applause had died down a bit and the mariachis had drifted away, I oh-so-casually reached for a chip, trying to ease us back to normal.
“Investment bankers rarely do that,” I commented.
“Excellent.” For some reason, this had him grinning. “I take it my grand gesture left you unconvinced?” he prompted. I was having trouble reading him, but he seemed slightly disappointed by this—or hurt, maybe.
“What? No! You were unbelievable! I’m definitely getting your CD!” I didn’t think it necessary to admit that I’d not only bought it already but broken it in as well. I honestly had no idea how to play this. At least my gushing merited another grin.
“I suppose it’s not a total loss, then. I made a sale, right?”
“Exactly.” I smiled at him and realized he was waiting. He was waiting for me to acknowledge that he’d been singing for me, waiting for me to register the words, clearly waiting for a kiss.
One night of romance. I’d known this all along, but I’d assumed Sean was looking for a bit more than that. A painful little hole opened up in the vicinity of my heart, but I ignored it. This was good—perfect—we were on the same page. This would make things much easier.
