host glanced in her direction and smiled. The man looked over and up and met her eyes. If she had had any doubt, it was extinguished by the Black Baccara rose in his hand.
Instead of the older gardener she had dreamed up, she was getting . . . something else. He looked dangerous and expensive, gorgeously dressed in a fitted bronze shirt that showed muscle without clinging too tightly and formal black slacks.
His face was the color of teak, but he wasn’t Native American, African American, or Hispanic, or any other race she could pinpoint. None of that mattered, though, because he was the single most beautiful man she’d ever seen in the flesh.
Wow, was her first thought.
Her second thought was, There is no way in hell this man needs a dating site to find someone to talk to. She’d been set up. Maybe Phoebe had connected the Tami from the site to the Tami from the homeless shelters. Maybe one of her coworkers figured out that she was registered on a not-dating site.
She straightened herself in her chair and pulled on her professional mask to cover her anger. Her hand reached up to grab her mother’s pendant necklace for reassurance and she forced it down to rest on the table in front of her.
This was supposed to be something she was doing for fun, dammit.
* * *
—
The woman’s face grew grimmer the closer Asil got to her table. She glanced at the rose in his hand, folded her arms, and looked away.
Amusement fought with pique—he had dressed carefully for this “date” his Concerned Friends had arranged for him from the Platonic Plantophiles—a Meeting Place for Plant Lovers site. His shirt was silk, yes, but it was a dusty brown a few shades lighter than his skin, a most ordinary color. Nothing romantic. The shirt a friend would wear going to dinner with another friend.
Maybe she hadn’t wanted a platonic friend? The restaurant was more romantic than he had expected. But he thought that even in a brown silk shirt he wouldn’t make a bad date. Her reaction reminded him of . . . the very first of these dates, actually.
Ah, of course. The problem was that he was too beautiful. That reaction was something he was used to dealing with.
He sat down, thanked the host, set his rose down gently, then folded his hands on the table and waited. It was better to make her speak first. He took the opportunity to look at her.
The dim light didn’t hinder his sight except that it made colors a little harder to determine. Her hair was light brown and her eyes another light color—blue or hazel. She had a face that showed signs of smiling a lot, which he liked. Her jaw was stubborn, which might be mostly a result of the current situation, but he liked that, too. She appeared to be somewhere in her early thirties.
“You are Mr. Moreno?” she asked.
“I am,” he responded. “You were expecting someone different?”
“Yes.” She considered him, her body stiff. “No.” She finished the dark wine in her glass, and said, “Did Phoebe set this up?”
“No,” he told her. “Who is Phoebe? And why would she want to set you up?”
She ignored his question, and instead waved a hand in his general direction and said, “Why would you need a dating service?”
“Yes, I agree,” he said, stating the obvious. “But we are not on a date, yes? This is to see if we might become friends.” He smiled at her gently. “I am set in my ways, and tend toward isolation. Some friends of mine thought it would be good for me to socialize.”
“This is a bet,” she said flatly.
“Not at all,” he said. “It is a gift—one that I cannot return if it doesn’t fit.” He lifted an eyebrow, inviting her to appreciate the awkwardness of such a gift. “They set both of us up. I don’t know who they are, yet, these generous friends of mine who have been corresponding with you. Because of that ignorance, I cannot vouch for their pure intent. But spending time in a restaurant