“You just threw my purse,” I informed him.
“Yeah,” he replied then demanded, “Coat.”
I stared at him a second, deciding that fighting about taking off my coat and the fact that I’d rather he not sit by me but across from me would keep me from dinner. Therefore, still pressed into the corner, I shrugged off my coat. He took it and threw that too.
Obviously a gentleman.
“Max –”
He twisted, leaned toward me, put one forearm on the table, the other arm on the back of the booth and considering his sudden proximity, the sheer size of his frame, the effect of his clear, gray eyes on me and the fact I was pinned in a corner, I stopped talking.
“Tell me, Duchess, how does an American come to sound like you?”
I stared at him another second then murmured, “It’s a long story.”
He looked over his shoulder at the restaurant, turned back to me and noted, “This ain’t fast food.”
“That’s too bad, considering I’m hungry.”
“So, the American passport and the English accent?” he prompted, ignoring my comment.
“In England, they say I have an American accent,” I informed him.
“They’d be wrong.”
“Actually, they’re right.”
He shook his head. “You aren’t answering my question.”
I sighed then I said, “I’ve lived there for awhile.”
“How long?”
“Long enough, evidently, to pick up a hint of an accent.”
“A hint?”
“Yes.”
“More than a hint, babe.”
I shrugged, looked at the table and gave in. “If you say so.” Then I arranged the placemats and silverware, one for him, one for me, all the while I did this I tried not to think about how it felt, him calling me “babe”. Unfortunately, I failed not to think of this and decided it felt nice.
When I was done arranging the table for our dinner, he asked, “How old are you?”
My eyes shot to his and I told him, “That’s a rude question to ask a woman.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It just is.”
“You older than you look?”
“Probably.” Or at least I hoped so.