“Woooow.” His laugh returns and my steps falter. “Okay, I see how it is.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes, hoping he doesn’t notice how much he affects me. I never thought I’d say this, but it was so much easier being around him when I hated him. “Well, since you’re still here, do you want to try and get some work done?”
“I’m actually starving.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and glances at the time. “It’s not too late. Wanna go grab a bite somewhere first?”
We’re just friends. He does not like you like that. This is not a date. It’s a professional courtesy because despite what you initially thought of him, he’s actually a decent guy. So calm the fuck down, Elliot.
Logically, I know what this is, but my stupid hormones don’t seem to get the memo. My palms start to sweat and the place where my stomach used to be is replaced with butterflies.
“Um, yeah, sure.” I keep my eyes trained in front of me. I’m convinced if I look at him, he’ll be able to see that I’m still thinking about kissing him and run for the hills. “Dinner would be good.”
“Cool.” His voice is calm and steady, just like always. Which, of course it is. Just another reminder that I’m not his type and he doesn’t see me in that light at all. “Since you picked the place last time and I didn’t even get food, I’m picking this go-round. Wanna follow me there?”
I hate choosing restaurants, so this works for me. “Sounds good. Let me just go shut down everything and grab my purse.”
“Great.” He gives me that manly chin nod that all dudes seem to learn during puberty when they’re too cool for words. “I’ll pull my car around the front and wait there.”
“Perfect, I’ll be there in a sec.”
He walks away and I only watch him for a second before I remember what I’m supposed to do. I head to my desk in a bit of a haze, only shutting down my computer from pure muscle memory as I try to get my mind right to have dinner with Quinton.
Hopefully I’ll manage to not make a total fool out of myself . . . again.
Twenty-two
I follow Quinton to a restaurant not far from his house.
I do this thinking he’s much better at leading than I was when we went to Stanley’s. He even passes up the parking spot right in front of the door and goes for the one that’s a little further but has an open one right beside it. It’s frustrating that when I really need to be focusing on reasons why I don’t want to kiss him again, he seems to be going out of his way to be chivalrous.
“What is this place?” I ask as I push open my door.
Quinton is standing behind my car with his hands in his pocket and a smirk on his face. “You’re a terrible driver.”
Oh. Okay. Yeah. This is the ammunition I need.
“First of all, rude. Second of all, how dare you?” I climb out of my car and lock the doors before tossing my keys in my purse. “I’m a fantastic fucking driver. You, on the other hand, drive like a grandpa.”
Whatever. Sure I just said he was nice to follow. I lied. Or am lying. Same difference.
He falls into step beside me as we cross the parking lot. “I had to be a grandpa because you rode so close to my bumper that if I went faster and had to stop, you would’ve killed us both.”
“Whoa now, big fella. Playing it a little fast and loose with the exaggerations, don’t you think?”
“Big fella?” His shoulders bounce with laughter as he pulls open the door. “We’ll just have to agree to disagree.”
“As long as we’re agreeing that we disagree with what you said, that’s fine with me.” I approach the hostess, who is on her phone, before Quinton can retort. “Hi! Two please.”
I don’t mean to startle her, but by the way she fumbles her phone before it finally falls to the floor, that’s what I do.
“Crap. I mean, sorry!” She grabs her phone and shoves it beneath the hostess stand before grabbing two menus. “Follow me.”
I wasn’t really paying attention when we were pulling in, so following her to the seat is the first time I really take in my surroundings. The restaurant isn’t anything to write home about. There’s a glassed-off area above the bar seating where you can see the chef rolling sushi. Japanese-inspired lanterns hang overhead, lighting the room. The tables are a light wood and there are lots of red and black decorations hung around the room. It’s cute, someplace I could totally picture stopping on the way home from work when I don’t feel like cooking (which is pretty much every day).
“Here you go.” The hostess stops at a booth near the rear of the restaurant.
“Thank you.” Quinton turns his attention to the hostess and directs his full, wonderful smile her way. She freezes midmotion, the menus hovering over the middle of the table as color fills her face. It isn’t until he pulls them from her hands that her brain seems to kick back into gear and she damn near runs away from us.
Poor girl. Not that I can blame her. Out of everyone, I fully understand how being on the receiving end of Quinton’s attention can scramble your brain.
I want to make a joke about what he does to people, but since I have been people in this situation, I keep my lips zipped . . . and to myself. Off to a great start!
“I probably should’ve asked if you liked sushi before, but—uh . . . do you like sushi? Or we can go grab Mexican . . .
