Getting sexy. Kayla Perrin
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draw in a deep breath to keep my erratic heart under control. “I…I guess I do have some interesting stories. Mostly from earlier in my career, when I was a field reporter.” The truth is, I have a lot of interesting stories. But I’d rather talk about me and Trevor and whether he’s doing anything later. It’s not exactly the time to bring up this suggestion, though. “What do you want to hear about? The streakers or the death threats?”
“Death threats?”
“Oh, yeah. I was covering a story about a feud between two business owners. One guy had a cleaning business in town for twenty years. The new guy set up shop and was stealing his customers. When I asked the new guy about his business practices, he shoved my cameraman to the ground and vowed to slit my throat.”
“Whoa.”
“Nothing came of it. But there have been other instances like that, and I’ve been worried more than a few times. There are some crazy people out there.”
“What else?”
“More stories?”
Trevor shakes his head. “No, tell me about you. Your life.”
My heart flutters. Okay, so he likes me. That’s good to know, because I really like him. “Well,” I begin, “I’m from Idaho.”
“Idaho?” Trevor looks at me like I’m nuts.
“Yep.”
“Wow,” he says. “I didn’t know there were black folks in Idaho.” There are laugh lines around his eyes as he smiles.
“That’s the first thing people always say, but yes, there definitely are.”
“Atlanta’s a far way from Idaho. Why’d you move here?”
“Because I always knew there was something bigger and better out there. Not to knock Boise, but I craved bigcity life. I also wanted to go to a black college, and there aren’t any there. I applied to Spelman, got accepted, and the rest is history.”
“Any regrets?”
I wonder if he’s talking about my moving to Atlanta or about us. “No. No regrets.”
“Good,” Trevor says.
Maybe it’s the wine, but my tongue is suddenly feeling loose. I lean across the table and say, “You know, I’m really glad that Rhonda matched us up. Before this, I was pretty jaded about dating. Seems I kept meeting the same type of man—the wrong one.”
“Same here,” Trevor says. “The wrong woman, I mean.”
Trevor and I share a chuckle. As our laughter dies, I glance away, wondering if I should invite him home now. No, not yet. There’s no need to rush.
So instead I ask, “When was your last relationship?” Depending on what he says, I’ll get an idea of where his head is at. If he’s hung up on someone else. As much as I want to have sex, I don’t want a one-night stand.
“It’s been a while for me,” he answers. “Four months.”
“That’s not so long,” I comment. I hope he’s over this woman. “Were you in love?”
Trevor shrugs. “I thought I was, but in the end I realized I wasn’t.”
He’s being a bit evasive. I wonder if I should be concerned. Then again, he might not want to talk about it because it was a bad breakup.
“Ever been married?” I ask.
“Nope. What about you?”
“Oh yeah. But thankfully, I came to my senses.” I force a grin. I don’t want him thinking I’m bitter. “He was the wrong man, but hey, it happens.”
I notice that Trevor’s eyes have shifted to beyond my shoulder. He seems to have tuned me out. Oh, shit. I sounded like a moron and now he’s turned off.
But his eyes linger, and I realize he’s not avoiding me but looking at something else. Or someone else.
I quickly glance over my shoulder and peruse the restaurant. I see a family of four, two young couples, a table with two men.
Damn, I’m obviously being paranoid, but it’s easy to be paranoid when you’ve dated the men I have.
When I turn back to Trevor, he is grinning at me. I have his undivided attention again.
He reaches for the bottle of wine and pours the dregs into my glass. “I don’t know you very well, but I feel confident in saying that it’s your husband’s loss.”
“You don’t have to convince me,” I agree.
I see the waitress coming toward us and I finish off my wine. The evening is going better than planned and I’m not ready for it to end. I’m thinking that maybe I’ll throw caution to the wind and have a specialty coffee. I can always stay at Trevor’s place, or he at mine, and get my car in the morning.
“Have you had a chance to check out the dessert menu?” the waitress asks.
“I’ll have a Baileys coffee,” I tell her.
“Nothing for me,” Trevor says, but he’s not looking at the waitress. He’s looking past her.
Now I know I’m missing something. Trevor is definitely preoccupied. Either he’s suddenly not digging me, or there’s someone here that he knows.
“Trevor,” I begin slowly. “Is everything okay?”
“Sure,” he answers quickly, but his body language says he is lying. His jawline is tense, and he suddenly looks irritated.
I’m confused. “Trevor, did I say something wrong?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“You seem…upset.”
Trevor shakes his head, but his eyes wander. This time, I follow his line of sight. It lands on a well-dressed white man sitting at a table with an Asian man. The white man is staring at Trevor.
I turn back to Trevor. “Do you know that guy? Oh, God. Don’t tell me you prosecuted him in court.”
“I think we should go.” Trevor is already rising and reaching into his jacket pocket. “Where’s that waitress?”
My stomach tightens painfully. God help me, I’m in a restaurant with a madman who was charming enough to convince a jury to acquit him. I can see why—the guy who is eyeing Trevor doesn’t look as if he could hurt a fly.
But I know better than that. There is no specific look for the criminal. If only they boasted fangs and bulging eyes.
Trevor drags a hand over his face, and as I watch him, I’m really starting to freak out. Just what is this madman going to do? I envision the broadcast on the eleven o’clock news. Local prosecutor gunned down in revenge killing.
There is relief on Trevor’s face when he spots the waitress. Without waiting a second, he marches toward her. As he does so, I slowly stand. I don’t know if this matters to killers, but I’m guessing that no sudden movement is a good plan of action.
The seconds that pass seem like hours. I want to take off, but I can’t just leave Trevor. If the situation were reversed, I wouldn’t want him leaving me.
When Trevor returns to me, I’m ready to hustle. We start for the door, heading to safety. But God help us, it’s too late. The madman jumps to his feet as we near his table. My entire body freezes as I’m seized with fright.
I do the first thing I can think of—take cover behind Trevor. What can I say? He’s not my man. I’m not ready to die for him.
“Trevor,” the white man says.
“Not now,” Trevor replies, moving past the other man.
The guy grabs Trevor’s