Learning Curves - By Elyse Mady Page 0,37

cares.”

He sighed and pocketed his money reluctantly. Turning away from the counter, she started back toward their table. Brandon reached out, halting her progress. He took her elbow and guided her into a small alcove. He cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly on the balls of his feet.

“Your dad mentioned some big dinner at the country club this weekend.”

Leanne rolled her eyes, surprised that her father had mentioned the obligation at all. Her mom was the one who usually planned their outings. “Oh yeah. Highlight of my social calendar. Gillian’s rehearsal dinner.”

“Gillian as in business-card Gillian?” His voice dropped to an intimate level, his body still. Leanne was impressed he’d remembered the name on the business card—he’d only glanced at it before setting it aside. And they’d been so distracted by other things afterward, she’d barely been able to remember her own name. Just thinking about those other things made it difficult to focus on this conversation. He stood close to her, the restaurant tables shielded from their direct line of sight by an elaborate arrangement of exotic silk plants.

“Gillian Saunders is a…family friend. She’s getting married a week from Saturday.”

She watched his throat, smooth and defined as he spoke.

“I see.”

“And I’ve been invited because my mom is one of her mother’s oldest friends. Lucky, lucky me.”

“You don’t want to go?”

“Hell, no! Gillian only invited me so she could gloat and preen.” Her lips twisted. “I anticipate two hours of intrusive questions and an hour of overpriced, undercooked entrées followed by another hour of unsolicited advice. Does that like fun to you?”

“So ask me to come with you.”

Leanne’s mouth dropped. That was the last thing she expected him to propose. Marshaling a rebuttal was difficult. It was hard to think clearly when he was so close. “You can’t be serious. It’ll be boring. Horribly stuffy and pretentious.”

“What makes you think I don’t like stuffy and pretentious country club dinners?” he teased, his breath brushing her temple although his lips never touched her heated skin. “I’m hurt you don’t think I know the difference between my dinner fork and my dessert fork.” His strong fingers threaded through hers and he drew her even closer.

Her head lolled back and it took all her willpower not to kiss him, knowing her father was on the other side of the room and the hostess only steps away. Anyone could come upon them, and the possibility of discovery added an element of excitement.

“You don’t want to come,” she said again, but this time her voice was low and breathless.

“Ask me anyway.” His eyes never left her face. His free hand came up to his mouth and he popped a mint between his well-shaped lips. He must have filched it from the hostess station.

“Ask me, Leanne.”

She could smell the minty freshness of his breath.

“Fine.” She closed her eyes in a desperate attempt to regain control of her riotous body. “Would you like to come with me to Gillian’s dinner on Saturday?”

“As your date?”

Her eyes flew open.

“I’m sorry?”

He pressed again. “As your date?”

Leanne gulped. She couldn’t marshal her arguments coherently when his lean, beautiful body was only inches from her own. Talk was the last thing on earth she wanted to do right now.

“As my date,” she conceded, even as she berated herself for not reiterating her commitment to keeping things casual. He smiled, his even white teeth glinting in the muted lights of the restaurant. He brushed a light kiss against her lips and her breath caught at the fleeting contact. But instead of deepening the kiss, he backed away almost immediately and released her hand.

“Excellent,” he said, seemingly unaffected by the kiss. “We should get back to the table. I think the waiter’s bringing out our desserts now.”

Her mind spinning, Leanne could only nod. She followed Brandon’s progress as he led the way back to their table. The desserts were indeed waiting for them and Brandon and her father dug in with unabashed eagerness. Still lost in thought, she took a bite of her own treat, the citrus sorbet melting on her tongue, and pondered the riddle that was Brandon Myles.

“Then turn left at the stop sign.”

The rain had finally stopped but the roads were still slick, littered with leaves brought down by the latest deluge. With a flick of her wrist, she signaled the turn.

After dropping her father back at his car, Leanne had offered to drive Brandon home. He lived in the student residences, a motley collection of low-rise apartments and narrow townhouses