the number of people warning her about me is starting to add up.
"Can you blame him?" She answers me with a feisty question, but I enjoy the verbal sparring with her.
"No, I guess not. If you were my sister, I'd likely feel the same… protective." My frank confession surprises me, especially when I examine the truth of it. The picture it paints isn’t very flattering, to say the least.
"Exactly, John helped me through the death of my husband a couple years ago, so he had his radar up with you last night. I'm not sure I should tell him about you and me, and our little date.” She emphasizes the word “date.” I smile as I admit to myself that I like the sound of the word, too. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I was on a date like this one. No agenda. Carefree. A novelty.
“What about your mother? What would she think of our little date?” The brother may not be happy about us being together, but Mrs. Swanson seemed to have a better opinion of me last night.
“My mother would bet thrilled ." She looks up at me with a wicked gleam in her eyes, telling me she might agree with her mother. At least that’s my hope.
She stops in front of a restaurant. "Well, we're here. Sant Ambroeus."
It’s small with a green- and white-striped awning hanging across the glass front. "We just missed their famous afternoon tea. I'll probably shock them by stopping by now. I've never come in this early for dinner."
I open the door for her and follow her inside. An Italian-looking gentleman around sixty approaches us, smiling from ear to ear. He holds out his arms to her, and it’s obvious they’re well acquainted with one another.
"Bellissimo, Ms. Kathryn." I watch the man greet her warmly as he places his hands on her upper arms and kisses each of her cheeks. I suppress my disappointment as I've yet to have my lips on her. It's a fact that sobers me, making me wonder what's become of the take 'em and leave 'em me.
"Maurice, I can't decide if it's the welcome I receive or your delicious food that brings me back to you." She pokes his side, playing with him, and he melts from her words. He's putty in her hands, just like I am.
"I'd like to think it's my welcome." Maurice flirts back, and I clear my throat to make my presence known, marking my territory once again. "Who do we have here?"
"Adam Kingsley, sir." I extend my hand to Maurice. His eyes appraise me warily. I can almost hear the questions he’s likely forming in his head. Yes, the "Adam Kingsley," playboy extraordinaire. I wonder why this title never seemed to bother me before. Today it’s pissing me the fuck off. He offers me his hand in return.
"Pleasure to meet you, Maurice." I stand firm, shaking his hand with purpose, as if I have nothing to hide. He drops my hand and regards me carefully.
"Mr. Kingsley, welcome to our restaurant as Ms. Kathryn's guest." His tone makes me wonder how truly welcome I am here. "Please follow me. Your usual spot, my dear?"
"Yes, Maurice," Kathryn replies.
He seats us next to the window looking out onto Madison Avenue. The table is covered with starched, crisp, white linens. Menus are settled in front of us with an unlit candle placed in the middle of the table.
While scanning the menu and deeply breathing in the delicious aroma from the kitchen, I realize I'm famished, achingly starving, in fact. My unorthodox day of trying to capture some time with Kathryn, the beautiful woman across the table from me, caused me to skip my lunch. So the last thing I've eaten today was after my grueling morning workout. I had my usual egg whites and oatmeal.
"Since you're a regular here, order for me." I once again concede and allow her to make a decision for me. I hardly recognize myself but wonder if she has any clue what she's doing to me. She really has no frame of reference to gauge me since we've only just met.
"So how often do you let people, or women in particular, order for you? I'd bet there aren't many people who make even
"Can you blame him?" She answers me with a feisty question, but I enjoy the verbal sparring with her.
"No, I guess not. If you were my sister, I'd likely feel the same… protective." My frank confession surprises me, especially when I examine the truth of it. The picture it paints isn’t very flattering, to say the least.
"Exactly, John helped me through the death of my husband a couple years ago, so he had his radar up with you last night. I'm not sure I should tell him about you and me, and our little date.” She emphasizes the word “date.” I smile as I admit to myself that I like the sound of the word, too. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I was on a date like this one. No agenda. Carefree. A novelty.
“What about your mother? What would she think of our little date?” The brother may not be happy about us being together, but Mrs. Swanson seemed to have a better opinion of me last night.
“My mother would bet thrilled ." She looks up at me with a wicked gleam in her eyes, telling me she might agree with her mother. At least that’s my hope.
She stops in front of a restaurant. "Well, we're here. Sant Ambroeus."
It’s small with a green- and white-striped awning hanging across the glass front. "We just missed their famous afternoon tea. I'll probably shock them by stopping by now. I've never come in this early for dinner."
I open the door for her and follow her inside. An Italian-looking gentleman around sixty approaches us, smiling from ear to ear. He holds out his arms to her, and it’s obvious they’re well acquainted with one another.
"Bellissimo, Ms. Kathryn." I watch the man greet her warmly as he places his hands on her upper arms and kisses each of her cheeks. I suppress my disappointment as I've yet to have my lips on her. It's a fact that sobers me, making me wonder what's become of the take 'em and leave 'em me.
"Maurice, I can't decide if it's the welcome I receive or your delicious food that brings me back to you." She pokes his side, playing with him, and he melts from her words. He's putty in her hands, just like I am.
"I'd like to think it's my welcome." Maurice flirts back, and I clear my throat to make my presence known, marking my territory once again. "Who do we have here?"
"Adam Kingsley, sir." I extend my hand to Maurice. His eyes appraise me warily. I can almost hear the questions he’s likely forming in his head. Yes, the "Adam Kingsley," playboy extraordinaire. I wonder why this title never seemed to bother me before. Today it’s pissing me the fuck off. He offers me his hand in return.
"Pleasure to meet you, Maurice." I stand firm, shaking his hand with purpose, as if I have nothing to hide. He drops my hand and regards me carefully.
"Mr. Kingsley, welcome to our restaurant as Ms. Kathryn's guest." His tone makes me wonder how truly welcome I am here. "Please follow me. Your usual spot, my dear?"
"Yes, Maurice," Kathryn replies.
He seats us next to the window looking out onto Madison Avenue. The table is covered with starched, crisp, white linens. Menus are settled in front of us with an unlit candle placed in the middle of the table.
While scanning the menu and deeply breathing in the delicious aroma from the kitchen, I realize I'm famished, achingly starving, in fact. My unorthodox day of trying to capture some time with Kathryn, the beautiful woman across the table from me, caused me to skip my lunch. So the last thing I've eaten today was after my grueling morning workout. I had my usual egg whites and oatmeal.
"Since you're a regular here, order for me." I once again concede and allow her to make a decision for me. I hardly recognize myself but wonder if she has any clue what she's doing to me. She really has no frame of reference to gauge me since we've only just met.
"So how often do you let people, or women in particular, order for you? I'd bet there aren't many people who make even
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