Tilly blushes at the memory. Her thick round glasses have polka dots on the frame, and she has her hair in a tight bun, but all the female staff have the same hairstyle. They talk for a few minutes. Tilly recently moved back to New York.
“You moved back to the house? Dad didn’t tell me.”
“I’ve been back a week. I saw them once. I’ve been busy painting and unpacking. I’m only working here until I start my job in a couple of months.”
A few people filter in and Vickie orders a French Martini and the jumbo shrimp. I stick to water and the pan seared sea bass.
Tilly walks away after promising to get together with Vickie and Tara soon. A few guys approach when they see me, asking for pictures and autographs.
Vickie sits back in her chair, crosses her arms, and watches with a look of distaste on her face.
“Remember our first date when we told each other all the things we didn’t like about each other?”
Her eyebrows shoot up to her forehead. “First date?” She does a fake laugh. “When did that happen?”
“Good point. This is our first official date.”
“Do you always date women who are pissed off at you, Colt?”
“It’s happened before.”
Tilly returns with my water and Vickie’s drink. She gulps down half of it in one sip and immediately orders another.
“How’s your devil’s milk?” I ask.
She eyes me, and I can see the steam practically pouring out of her ears.
“I’m an adult who enjoys a cocktail. I make zero apologies for that, and I don’t see that changing ever." To prove her point, she finishes the drink and washes it down with her water.
“You’re really beautiful.” The compliment confuses her so much, it takes the wind out of her sails. She sits back and eyes me. “That’s what I want to do today; the opposite of our first—” I think of the right word and say, “meeting.”
When she just stares, I say, “You are beautiful. You have these really big, expressive eyes and full lips. Sometimes you pout after taking a sip of a cold drink. You sigh dramatically when your brother says something ridiculous, which is often. Your eyes soften whenever your father speaks, but they turn icy whenever your mother tries to join in the conversation, which I don’t understand. Your mama is sweet, other than trying to convince you to get back with your ex. I’m sure once she knows about us, she’ll forget all about him.”
She stares some more, not offering a rebuttal. “Your turn to say something nice about me now. See? The opposite of our first meeting.”
“You’re a controlling jackass, and you don’t know squat about me or my mama.” She uses a southern drawl inflection when she says mama. Tilly brings her a fresh drink, but she sips it slower this time. She also puts a platter of crab cakes in front of us and tells us that it’s on the house.
“I think you misunderstand the assignment, Ms. Taylor. That’s really a shame considering your profession.” I grab a fork, put a piece of crab cake on it, and offer it to her. She shakes her head and picks up her own fork. “You’re supposed to say something nice about me.”
“I can’t think of a single thing.” She looks up at the ceiling as if she’s deep in thought. “Nope. Not a single thing.”
“That hurts, my queen.” I put a hand to my heart, and she rolls her eyes at me. Then something changes in her eyes, and she leans across the table. “Let’s go back to that first assignment. You’re high handed.”
“I’m assertive and decisive.”
“You try to hide your controlling ways behind your southern gentleman persona, but I can see right through you.”
“I’d only control you in bed,” I tease.
“You disregard my career. You have your driver kidnap me. And for what? I already gave you all the reasons why we can’t be anything.”
Our entrees are brought out, and I pierce a stalk of asparagus with my fork.
“Tell me again what those reasons are. My memory isn’t what it used to be.” And all her reasons are bull. It’s been years since I’ve been this interested in a woman. It’s been almost a decade of being able to have any woman I want, and I know this one wants me. “And try not to give me some bull crap reasons this time.”
“Who says bull crap? God, you’re boring, and just because you refuse to accept my answers does not mean they’re bullshit.” I wince at the expletive. Cursing was forbidden in my house growing up. Mama would get so outraged whenever one of us would cuss that Daddy would take out his belt. He never used it, of course, and a few times, he’d laugh while he’d chase me and Charlie.
She picks up a shrimp and bites it, and I wonder how her lips would feel wrapped around a certain member of my anatomy.
