Need You Tonight. Roni Loren
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a fucking joke it had all been. He’d wanted a wife for window-dressing. Maybe he’d loved her at some point, or thought he had, but obviously anything that had been there had quickly faded, especially after they’d tried to have kids and failed. She’d been stupid to believe marriage would give her some sort of instafamily, some place in the world. Marriage was a sham sold by fairy tales and movies. Of all her married friends, how many had made it past that ten-year mark? Probably not even half. And the ones who were still together, how many were fooling around behind their spouse’s back like Doug was?
She finished her drink and ordered a second.
No, this was better. She had her eyes wide open now. No starry-eyed love or misplaced trust mucking up the waters. Tonight she’d probably sleep with Van. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t call her. And she wouldn’t be waiting for him to do so. No expectations or obligations. No need for lies and pretenses.
In fact, the faux name was going to be her first and last fib of the night. If they were going to have a date, she was going to be one-hundred-percent honest and completely herself. Not the version she thought he wanted to see. She was done with all those bullshit games she’d played for so long. If that screwed things up, then so be it. He didn’t deserve to see her naked if that was the case.
A warm hand pressed against her lower back, startling her off her internal soapbox.
“I’m ready for you now.”
She wet her lips and set her drink down. The way he’d said it—I’m ready for you instead of Are you ready?—had made something flutter inside her. Nerves. Anticipation. She wasn’t sure, but the feeling was far from unpleasant. She turned to face him, letting him help her off the stool. “Where to?”
He offered her his crooked arm. “Follow me.”
They walked through the dining room, turning a few heads. She didn’t doubt the glances were for Van and not her. Something about the man called for attention. Not just his height and good looks, but some regal air that enveloped him. She scanned the room as they walked, looking for empty tables, but the place was packed. When they reached the back of the restaurant, Van led her away from the dining room and toward a door down a small hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“Up,” he said, pulling the door open for her and guiding her forward.
A set of stairs greeted her along with a chain that had a Closed sign hanging from it. She peeked back over her shoulder. “I don’t think we’re supposed to go up here.”
He leaned past her and unhooked the chain. “I promise they won’t kick us out.”
So he worked here apparently. Maybe he was the general manager or one of the owners. That last one was a distinct possibility. The man definitely strolled around like he owned the place. But she had a feeling he walked around every place like that. Without voicing her questions, she headed up the stairs. When she reached the door at the top, Van stepped past her and pushed the door open.
She sucked in a breath at the unexpected gust of cool air and the view on the other side. A rooftop deck spread out before them, complete with quaint little tables and a vine-covered pergola laced with twinkle lights overhead. On the far end, there was a long, rustic table with candles and a full outdoor stove and grill.
“Wow, this is beautiful.”
“Yeah, it’s my favorite spot in the restaurant. But we don’t use it during the winter months except for the occasional party.”
“Or for a random woman you pilfer from an online dating event.”
He grinned. “Exactly. But I think it’s warm enough tonight to not be a problem.”
“So we’re going to make some poor waiter traipse up here to serve us food?”
“Nah,” Van said, taking her hand and leading her forward. “You came here to learn how to cook. So we won’t need any staff.”
As they got closer to the long table, she saw there were little bowls of ingredients on the far end like they’d had at the event. She glanced over at him. “You’re going to teach me to cook?”
He cocked his head, looking playfully offended. “What? You don’t think I can cook?”
She let her perusal of him travel from the top of his head down the front of his black dress shirt and gray trousers to the tips of his clearly expensive shoes. “You don’t look like you spend a lot of time in a kitchen.”
“And you don’t look like a woman who’d spend her evening crashing a date meet-up. But looks can be deceiving, right?” He let go of her hand with a smirk, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled his sleeves up his forearms.
For some reason, the simple movement fascinated her, like she was watching his urbane shell being peeled back and revealing the real man beneath. She pulled her attention away from those big, capable hands. “So what kind of woman do I look like then?”
He gave her a similar head-to-toe assessment then met her gaze. “One who doesn’t usually break the rules or take a risk.”
She scoffed. “Oh, really?”
His smile was knowing as he grabbed a knife and cutting board from the counter then placed a wedge of white cheese on it. “Am I wrong?”
“I’m up here with you, aren’t I?” she said, challenging him.
He moved the knife as if marking a point in her favor on an invisible scoreboard. “Touché.”
Following his lead, she grabbed a loaf of crusty bread and another knife to start slicing it. “So you admit you’re a risk?”
Before she could cut into the bread, he laid his hand on hers, stilling her movements. “Don’t use that knife. You need a serrated one for that kind of bread.”
She glanced down at his hand on hers, the warmth of his touch a little too welcome. “Oh, right.”
He replaced the knife with one that had a jagged edge. “And I’m no more of a risk than going to the dating event and sitting with a stranger.”
“So this is a date?”
He took one of the slices of bread, placed a piece of cheese atop it, and then held it in front of her lips. She opened her mouth and let him feed her a bite of bread and cheese. He was so close now, she could see the flecks of green mixing with the blue in his eyes. Somehow he managed to both intimidate and cajole in one simple look. “It’s whatever you want it to be, Contessa.”
The salty cheese hit her taste buds, and she had to remind herself to chew, to breathe.
“Good?” he asked.
She nodded, though the movement felt stiff. “Manchego. One of my favorites.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “A woman who knows her gourmet cheeses but doesn’t know how to use a bread knife? Interesting.”
She was tempted to refute that claim, tell him it was a lucky guess, but she stopped herself. No more lying.
“I don’t want this to be a date,” she blurted out.
His forehead creased. “What?”
“I don’t want this to be a date,” she repeated. “Dates suck. It’s two people telling each other what they think the other person wants to hear and hoping they get it right. It’s a farce.”
He leaned back against the table as if giving her space to voice her opinion. “Okay, so what would you like this to be?”
“Let’s make this an un-date. No fronts, no lies, and no ridiculous promises to call the next day. You didn’t invite me up here because you think I could be some perfect match for your future. And I didn’t come up here for that either.”
He’d been watching her with equal parts amusement and intrigue, but now a