uncomfortable intimacy. His fingertips brushed my shoulder as he helped me adjust my chair, before taking his own.
Perky gave us our menus, and laying it on thick for baseball’s hottest hunk. She winked as she sauntered away. Aidan opened his menu and with acute nonchalance removed a small note. He ripped it in half, then quarters, before discarding the pieces in the center of the table. His eyes went back to his menu.
I pushed his menu down. “You might need that later.”
“I have a strict rule.” He flicked his menu. “I only work on one girl’s number at a time. I’m still laboring on yours.”
“You just said you had all my numbers already.”
“I’m talking about your number, meaning I’ve figured you out.” He placed his menu at his elbow. “I tried all these years. You’re a little harder to decipher than most.”
“I’m sure you didn’t lose any sleep over it.”
He eyed me but didn’t respond as the waiter approached with a friendly smile halting that vein of conversation, thankfully. Aidan requested a bottle of wine before he proceeded to order a three-course meal for the two of us. “I’ll let you pick the dessert.” He looked at me tenderly as the waiter stood patiently at the table. “I assume you still love deserts.”
If we were love birds on a date, the sparrow-haired seducer was out to have the insignificant finch for dinner. What the cannibal didn’t know, however, was I wasn’t irrelevant anymore. “That’s fine, you high-handed rat—”
He pinched the inside of my knee.
“Bastard.” I glared at him. The waiter chuckled as he melded away. “Get your claws out of my skirt.”
“I’ll be in more than your skirt, if you continue.”
“In your dreams, Band-Aid.”
“We have serious things to discuss, and we won’t be able to discuss them if you’re constantly thinking of a comeback.”
“God knows you never thought of coming back.”
“Save the sarcasm for someone in the minors.” He raised a wing-swept eyebrow. “Truce?” He patted my knee and removed his hand. “Tell me how you managed law school with a baby.”
I blinked the shock away and glanced from my hands, playing with my napkin in my lap, to meet his well informed eyes.
“I’m sorry you had to do that on your own. It’s amazing what you’ve been able to accomplish with a baby.”
“He’s not a baby anymore, and it beats living in a trailer park in southern Indiana.” I swallowed a long drink of wine. “Plus, I can concentrate on more than one thing at a time.”
“That one I deserved.”
“What do you want from me?”
Before Aidan responded, another man towered over him. His left arm rested on Aidan’s chair while his right hand pumped Aidan’s hand. A petite woman stood alongside them. What she lacked in height she made up for in sultry presence. Her curves started at the golden highlights in her coppery spiked hair and continued to her purple pointy-toed boots. She had all the right equipment, in all the right places, and unlike Aidan’s fiancée, this woman appeared all natural.
When Aidan stood, I pushed my own chair back and rose to face none other than Cyrus Fletcher. I cringed inwardly.
Cyrus Fletcher was the slickest sports agent in the Midwest. He was notoriously known as a contrary peacock counselor whose ego and influence was as expansive and as vivid as the preening bird. ‘Fletch’ flounced through courtrooms with the same self importance feathering most of his clients.
He was uniformed for the evening in an Italian three-piece suit, precision-cut for his angular frame. His hand-tailored pink shirt was starched so stiffly it doubled as body armor. His necktie was 100 percent silk, as smooth and as eye-catching as the most vibrant of peacock feathers. Not a hair on his crimson colored head was out of place, except for the spikes he wore across his forehead.
Other attorneys swore the man didn’t sweat, and I concurred. But if you ever listened to a peacock
Perky gave us our menus, and laying it on thick for baseball’s hottest hunk. She winked as she sauntered away. Aidan opened his menu and with acute nonchalance removed a small note. He ripped it in half, then quarters, before discarding the pieces in the center of the table. His eyes went back to his menu.
I pushed his menu down. “You might need that later.”
“I have a strict rule.” He flicked his menu. “I only work on one girl’s number at a time. I’m still laboring on yours.”
“You just said you had all my numbers already.”
“I’m talking about your number, meaning I’ve figured you out.” He placed his menu at his elbow. “I tried all these years. You’re a little harder to decipher than most.”
“I’m sure you didn’t lose any sleep over it.”
He eyed me but didn’t respond as the waiter approached with a friendly smile halting that vein of conversation, thankfully. Aidan requested a bottle of wine before he proceeded to order a three-course meal for the two of us. “I’ll let you pick the dessert.” He looked at me tenderly as the waiter stood patiently at the table. “I assume you still love deserts.”
If we were love birds on a date, the sparrow-haired seducer was out to have the insignificant finch for dinner. What the cannibal didn’t know, however, was I wasn’t irrelevant anymore. “That’s fine, you high-handed rat—”
He pinched the inside of my knee.
“Bastard.” I glared at him. The waiter chuckled as he melded away. “Get your claws out of my skirt.”
“I’ll be in more than your skirt, if you continue.”
“In your dreams, Band-Aid.”
“We have serious things to discuss, and we won’t be able to discuss them if you’re constantly thinking of a comeback.”
“God knows you never thought of coming back.”
“Save the sarcasm for someone in the minors.” He raised a wing-swept eyebrow. “Truce?” He patted my knee and removed his hand. “Tell me how you managed law school with a baby.”
I blinked the shock away and glanced from my hands, playing with my napkin in my lap, to meet his well informed eyes.
“I’m sorry you had to do that on your own. It’s amazing what you’ve been able to accomplish with a baby.”
“He’s not a baby anymore, and it beats living in a trailer park in southern Indiana.” I swallowed a long drink of wine. “Plus, I can concentrate on more than one thing at a time.”
“That one I deserved.”
“What do you want from me?”
Before Aidan responded, another man towered over him. His left arm rested on Aidan’s chair while his right hand pumped Aidan’s hand. A petite woman stood alongside them. What she lacked in height she made up for in sultry presence. Her curves started at the golden highlights in her coppery spiked hair and continued to her purple pointy-toed boots. She had all the right equipment, in all the right places, and unlike Aidan’s fiancée, this woman appeared all natural.
When Aidan stood, I pushed my own chair back and rose to face none other than Cyrus Fletcher. I cringed inwardly.
Cyrus Fletcher was the slickest sports agent in the Midwest. He was notoriously known as a contrary peacock counselor whose ego and influence was as expansive and as vivid as the preening bird. ‘Fletch’ flounced through courtrooms with the same self importance feathering most of his clients.
He was uniformed for the evening in an Italian three-piece suit, precision-cut for his angular frame. His hand-tailored pink shirt was starched so stiffly it doubled as body armor. His necktie was 100 percent silk, as smooth and as eye-catching as the most vibrant of peacock feathers. Not a hair on his crimson colored head was out of place, except for the spikes he wore across his forehead.
Other attorneys swore the man didn’t sweat, and I concurred. But if you ever listened to a peacock
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