“I don’t know what you want to know. I’m pretty boring. No, scratch that, I’mreallyboring.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
The waitress returns with our bottle of chilled wine and pours the translucent liquid into his glass. He lifts it to his mouth and sips. I watch in awe as the wine drifts down beneath the smooth curve of his throat. “That’s fine. Thank you.”
She pours more into his glass and then fills mine. I take a sip as soon as she leaves and resist groaning. Fine? Pears? Vanilla? Smoky butterscotch? This is heavenly.
“All right,” Benjamin says, leaning toward me. “Well, tell me three things special about yourself and I will stop bugging you.”
“You’re killing me here.”
He gazes at me, his eyes alight with laughter.
“Let’s see…” I peer up at the tan checkerboard ceiling, squinting. “I’m warning you. I’m not cool like these supermodels you date.”
“Just say it, Darcy.”
“I read day and night. I’ve never been to a club, and I don’t really know how to text.”
He laughs. “You’re right. Youareboring.”
I gasp, hitting his arm. “Wellthanks. I warned you I wasn’t like the girls you see!”
What the hell are you doing, Fontaine?
“You definitely are not.”
The appraising way his eyes travel over my face could easily melt a glacier. This is as easy as breathing for him. He effortlessly holds my attention with his beauty without having to really do anything special at all, forcing me to realize that while he’s strikingly handsome, I can’t do this, not unless I want to lose my damn job. He practically told me in the car that he’s some dashing rogue, and here I amflirtingwith him.
The corners of his lips ease upward. “You know what? I don’t think you’re boring at all. I just think you haven’t had someone yet to show you all the good things in life.”
***
We are on our last course of sushi when he asks about my parents.
“They died when I was seven,” I inform him.
He swallows. “God, I’m sorry.”
“Car accident. It was a long time ago,” I say quietly, hoping he doesn’t ask who I moved in with. But of course he does.
“My uncle.”
“Oh, and what does he do?”
“I think it’s plumbing.” I stare intently at my salmon.
“You think?” he asks, intrigued.
I muster an apologetic smile, hearing my own throaty swallow. “I’m sorry. I really don’t like to speak of him, if that’s all right with you.”
“Oh,oh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He just wasn’t a nice man, and I don’t like to remember him.”
“That’s understandable.” He looks away uncomfortably and I berate myself inwardly.
Damn it, everything was going so smoothly.
