using pitches like I use checkboxes.
And I’m pretty sure I just threw a strike in his book.
He pauses for a moment, then flashes me a grin. “I have a reservation for us,” he says. “This way.”
Brady inclines his head for me to walk ahead of him to the hostess stand, and as soon as I move in front of him, I feel his fingertips graze the small of my back to escort me. I nearly gasp from the sensation of his hand touching me.
I’m with more than a grown-ass man, I realize.
I’m with a gentleman.
We reach the hostess stand, and Brady leans in closer to me so he can speak to the hostess. His body brushes against mine, and my breath catches in my throat.
“Reservation for Jensen,” he says.
The hostess marks it on her screen and picks up two menus. “Follow me, please.”
I fall in behind her, and Brady once again places his hand lightly on the small of my back.
How is it possible for him to tick this many boxes on my man chart before we even sit down to dinner?
“Here we are,” the hostess says, placing menus on a table near the back of the restaurant. One side is a low-slung booth, and the opposite side is a chair.
“Where do you prefer to sit?” Brady asks.
Tick!
“The chair is fine, thank you,” I say, taking my Longchamp nylon tote and draping it on a corner of my chair back. I begin to take off my coat, and Brady steps in to help me out of it.
“Allow me,” he says.
Is there anything sexier than a man with old-school manners?
Yes. A gorgeous, tattooed man with retro manners.
Two more boxes are ticked on my list.
“Thank you,” I murmur as he drapes the coat over the back of my chair. I take my seat, and then Brady slides into the booth across from me.
“Hien will be your server tonight,” the hostess says, placing our menus down in front of us. “Enjoy your evening.”
Brady picks up the beer and wine menu and begins reading it. My eyes, however, are nowhere near the menu as I take in the tattoo sleeves on his arms. I study his right arm, which is holding up the wine list. There are contrasting shades of black ink on his skin. Ooh, this is fascinating. I see what looks like seaweed and the tentacles of an octopus wrapping around his forearm and his wrist bo—
“Addison?”
I jerk my eyes away from his arm to his face. Brady is staring at me, waiting for my answer.
To a question I do not know.
“Um, I’m sorry, what?” I ask, hoping he didn’t realize I was fascinated with the marine life art inked on his arm.
He raises an eyebrow. “Am I boring you already?”
Okay. I’ll confess.
“I’m sorry, I was studying the tattoo on your right arm. Is that an octopus?”
Brady sets the menu down and stretches out his arm on the table, his fingertips lightly tracing over the inked skin. “It is. The tentacles go all the way up my arm,” he explains, trailing his fingers up until they meet the sleeve of his pushed up sweater, then over the fabric of his bicep, and stopping at the shoulder, “and the actual octopus is up here.”
“I’ve never seen one like that,” I say, fascinated. “Why did you choose an octopus? What is the meaning of it?”
“Well, for one, I love the water,” Brady says. “I surf in the off-season. I love swimming in the ocean, staring at it, listening to it, smelling the salt in the air. It’s the one place I feel at home, if that makes sense. If I’m near water, I’m happy. Last year I played in the minor leagues and was lucky enough to be in Louisiana, on the Gulf of Mexico. When I thought I was going to Chicago, at least I’d have Lake Michigan. Here, I have the Potomac and the Chesapeake Bay.” He flashes me a lopsided grin. “I’ll take it.”
I laugh, and he continues.
“So I did some research and thought about what would best represent my connection to the water. I grew up a few blocks from the Pacific, and the ocean is what I love. I wanted to represent some of the sea life down there, but it had to represent me, too.”
“Hmm. So you pick a creature that has long tentacles?” I tease.
Brady immediately holds both hands up. “I promise to keep my two arms to myself tonight.”
Ooh, he’s cute, I think, that swoony feeling