my dress.
He looks dominant and sexy, a predator caged in gilded threads as he looks me up and down. I feel like prey, and I want to run . . . just so he’ll chase me . . . catch me . . . take me. Shit. I’m in so much trouble, but I think I like it.
I shake my head, rattling those thoughts loose. He grins, and I know my dirty thoughts are written clearly on my face and he’s read every word. “You look stunning, Madison. Shall we?” he says respectfully, even though my naughty thoughts are reflecting back in his eyes, making promises I hope to hold him to later. He offers his hand, and I feel a spark zing from his fingers through me when we touch.
He escorts me to his car, helping me in and then climbing in the driver’s seat. “Where are we going?”
“Toast,” he says, dropping the name of the best restaurant in town like it’s IHOP. “We have reservations in forty-five minutes.”
I don’t really know what to say, my stomach feeling like it’s tearing itself in half as we drive to the restaurant. Even the valet gives Scott’s car a long look as we pull up, and going inside, I’m stunned again at all the finery. I feel . . . inadequate, even though I have my hair all done up, my makeup fixed just right, and this gorgeous dress swooshing as I walk. For a moment, in Scott’s gaze, I’d felt like it all worked . . . looked right and real on me. But now, I’m just a girl playing dress-up again.
But Scott seems at home, strolling through the restaurant, radiating power and confidence. It’s like a shield that protects me from the other patrons’ looks because they focus on him, whether they want to be him or be with him. But it’s his lack of care about what anyone else in the room thinks that’s immensely attractive. He’s unaffected. Hell, he might be unaware of the attention. Which just shows how much Scott was born to be in charge.
“May I take your wine order, sir?” a snooty-looking man with what sounds like a French accent but is probably from New Jersey asks after we’re seated.
“We’ll start off with the Casa Blanca Merlot, 1996,” Scott says, and the man just gives a slow nod and scurries off.
“So I guess they don’t serve fried chicken and biscuits here?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Actually, they do have panko-crusted chicken, but I don’t think it comes with biscuits.” He winks playfully but then sobers. I can see him considering his words. “Madison, I want you to explore tonight. Pick something on the menu you’ve never had before . . . something that you you’ve wanted to try but never had the reason or opportunity to have.”
“Okay. But . . . why?”
He gives me a little smile and looks down at his menu. “Because a little while ago, I let a friend drag me into some honky-tonk where I ordered a Snow Queen martini, something I’d never had before that night. And it changed things for me. Perhaps a change in flavors might be just as impactful for you.”
His words warm my chest, and I look over the menu, pointedly ignoring the prices after I sneak a look at the wine list and see that the bottle he ordered simply says Reserve . . . ask the manager.
Still, as I take in the muted conversation at the tables around us, the quiet tinkles of sound from the piano in the background, and the soft candlelight, I realize that there is a charm to this life Scott is showing me. Nobody’s leering at me, the music isn’t so loud I can barely think . . . and the chair I’m sitting in feels softer than even my own couch.
“Ready?” Scott asks as the sommelier and another person, a girl in a simple black blouse and skirt who I guess is our waitress, approach. I nod, closing my menu. “Ladies first.”
I order lamb, while Scott goes with something called a scotch fillet, which I see is a cut of beef. Apparently, both go well with our wine selection as the sommelier gives an agreeable nod. As they take their leave, Scott raises a glass to me. “A toast, in Toast, to new opportunities.”
We clink glasses, and as I sip the amazing wine, I think . . . Scott obviously enjoys this lifestyle, and it is appealing.