There was no judgment in his tone, and his playful edge helped me relax a little.
Biting my lip, I turned toward him. His face was close, and I took the moment to stare into his eyes.
I should’ve felt something. Longing. Desire. Happiness. Hell, a butterfly or two.
A hot chef sat beside me in a suit that should’ve sent my insides fluttering. Not to mention, it’d been far too long since I had attention like this.
But there was nothing. Was there something wrong with me?
I shook my head. “No clue.”
He chuckled and pulled back slightly, reaching down and tapping the smaller fork. “Start with that one, the salad fork. Then work your way in as the courses go.”
He went on, helpfully pointing out each utensil and what it was for. I actually appreciated that.
My stomach was practically growling by the time I figured it out, and once I knew what I was doing, I dove into the salad. The dressing was creamy, earthy, and unlike anything I’d tasted before. A low moan escaped my lips as I rolled my eyes athow delicious the flavors were. I went in for another bite. Then another.
Then I noticed Miles setting down his fork, pushing the plate away like it offended him. I looked at him sideways, suddenly self-conscious.
Was I doing something wrong?
Trying to be polite, I dabbed my mouth with my napkin.
“You ate that like a starved animal,” he said. I couldn’t tell if it was a joke or if he’d been embarrassed by my display of hunger.
I froze. My smile faltered.
“I was hungry?” I offered, more question than statement. “Did you… not like the salad?”
“It’s disgusting,” Miles said, laughing again. “I’m sorry I brought you here. Someone told me it was top-notch, but I guess not.”
Disgusting? I looked down at my nearly empty plate, suddenly unsure of myself. I’d genuinely enjoyed it. Were my standards too low?
Just then, the waiter passed by and Miles reached out, grabbing his arm mid-stride and jerking him to a stop.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Buckwell?” the waiter asked, professional but clearly startled.
“Actually, yes,” Miles said, sitting up straighter and squaring his shoulders. “This was awful. I couldn’t even finish it. My date only did out of pity.”
The waiter’s gaze flicked to me, and I gave him a tight, apologetic smile.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said quickly. “I’ll remove these right away and inform the chef. May I offer a complimentary bottle of wine while you enjoy the rest of your meal?”
“That’ll do,” Miles replied, settling back in his seat.
The plates were cleared. I said nothing, but my appetite, once ravenous, had vanished.
I took the moment to glance around the room, taking in the exposed beams, giving it an industrial feel. Soft chatter and music filled the space.
A warm hand on my thigh caught my attention.
I flinched slightly, startled by the contact. But I forced myself to settle.
The fabric of my dress bunched as Miles’s hand crept higher on my thigh, pushing the hem up inch by inch, revealing more skin.
A buzz of heat rippled through me—not desire, but the prickling, uneasy warmth of nerves. My body went stiff as his hand reached bare skin, fingers sliding toward the sensitive inside of my thigh.
My breath caught.