After stripping off the hoodie, I stash it in the trunk and get into the driver’s seat.
Time to pick up the redhead.
Saige’s apartment is on the top floor in a nice brick building. Of course, her father owns it and she doesn’t pay rent. I send her a message that I’m downstairs and ask if she wants me to come up and get her. It’s hard to know what she’d prefer.
Come on up. I’ll buzz you in. I park the car and get out to ring the bell. The door opens and instead of climbing the stairs and getting sweaty, I take the elevator.
I hear her footsteps as she walks toward the door after I knock.
It opens and she smiles at me. My heart stops for a second.
“Hey,” she says, leaning a little to the side. It’s as if she knew I would wear black, and she’s dressed to match in a simple black strapless dress with lace around the hem. Her hair is loosely twisted up in the back, with a few tendrils caressing her neck.
Her green eyes are hooded by smoky lids and she’s got her signature red lips. All in all, she’s breathtaking.
“Hey,” I say after I’ve looked her up and down. I can’t help myself.
She smiles and her teeth are brilliant against the red of her lips.
“You clean up nice, Quinn Brand.”
“So do you, Saige Beaumont.” Her smile widens and I notice that she gets little crinkles at the edges of her eyes when she smiles. Lovely. So far this assignment has been both business and pleasure and I think it’s going to continue that way.
“Shall we?” I say, holding my arm out for her and then producing a single white rose from behind my back. It means innocence and purity, which is at odds with my true intentions.
“Very smooth,” she says, taking the rose from me and sniffing it before breaking the stem and putting it behind her ear. Now that was smooth. She takes my arm and we ride down the elevator and go out to the car. I open the door for her and she makes appreciative comments about the car.
“Thank you. It gets me from place to place,” I say.
I pull out and she asks where we’re going.
“I thought you liked surprises,” I say.
“I do, but only when I know what they are.” I chuckle.
“Then that defeats the purpose of a surprise.”
“Hey, I’m not going to explain how my mind works. You’re just going to have to figure it out.” I ask her if the temperature is okay and she nods.
The rest of the way to the restaurant is spent in small talk. Mindless getting-to-know-you chatter. Only I already know most everything I need to know about her to do my job.
She asks me some more about my job and I give her general answers. She leans back in the seat and the white rose behind her ear keeps catching my attention. I’m not used to having a pretty girl in the passenger seat.
I pull up in front of the restaurant and the valet comes out to take my keys. I slip him a few bills to take extra good care of the car and go over to open the door for Saige.
“Thank you,” she says, giving me a smile. It’s a warm night out, so she just has a black silky shawl wrapped around her shoulders. All the black makes her white skin glow. A few freckles dot her skin here and there and I’m looking forward to see where else they exist on her body.
“Veerrrrryyyy nice,” she says, drawing out the first word as she sees where we are. I haven’t skimped on anything tonight.
“Why thank you. I’ve heard the chef here makes a roast duck that will change your life,” I say. Technically, I’m quoting Cash, who had been here a few weeks ago with a woman he was trying to seduce. It worked, so I decided to bring Saige here as well.
The hostess leads us to our table in the back. It’s sweet and cozy and away from the prying eyes of the rest of the patrons.
“So far, so good,” she says as I pull her chair out for her and she sits down.
“I’m hoping things will continue to be good.” I sit down and she raises one eyebrow.
“Just good?”
“Great?” She shakes her head. “Fantastic?” Another head shake. “Spectacular?”
“How about memorable?” she suggests. “I’ll take memorable. Memorable is better than good.”
“Yes, but memorable can also be bad. I want this to be a positive experience, if I can help it,” I say. The hostess interrupts our conversation to give us the specials and a wine list.
“I’ll have a pinot noir and for the lady…” I trail off and glance at Saige.
“The same,” she says with a smile.
“Would you like a few moments?” I say that I do and she leaves us. I already know what I want to order, but I give Saige the chance to peruse.
“So I’m guessing if you know that the duck is good, then you’ve been here before.” I know where she’s going with this, even though she keeps her tone light.
“Yes, I’ve brought a few clients here for dinner. No other women, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m currently unattached.” Her green eyes flick up to meet mine.
“I don’t care if you’re dating. I was just wondering.” No, she wasn’t. I’m beginning to sense a possessive streak in her. I like it.
“Uh huh,” I say, dismissing it. “See anything you like?”
Her eyes look up and meet mine.
“Maybe.”
“I meant something on the menu.” Her eyes narrow a little and she sets her menu down.
“I think I’m feeling like duck tonight, how about you?” I agree. Our wine arrives and I order for both of us. Saige leans back in her chair and tips her head to the side.
“Studying me?” I ask, sipping my wine.
“Trying to figure you out. You’re a bit of a mystery, Quinn Brand, but I bet you know that. I bet you know that and you use it to your advantage whenever you can.” I give her a smile.
“You’ve got me pegged, Saige.” I can’t stop saying her name. She sips her wine, but her eyes don’t leave mine. The white rose looks so pretty against her red hair.
“No, I don’t think I do. There’s a lot to you, Quinn. I can feel it. You’re like a pond where the surface appears calm, but you don’t know how deep it is until you dive in and start to let yourself drown.” I could say the same about her.
“Does that bother you?” she asks.
“No. You can analyze me all you want. It means I get to stare into those green eyes of yours.” I expect her to blush and look down, but she doesn’t. Her eyes narrow as if she knows exactly what game I’m playing. Yes, I have underestimated this redhead.
The conversation moves back onto more solid ground and I ask her about hobbies and favorite music and so forth. A lot of this information isn’t something I can find out until I talk to her.
“I’m sure you expect me to say that I listen to something deep and vintage, like Joni Mitchell,” she says.
“I’ve learned it’s best not to assume in life,” I say. I never assume if I can help it. “So who do you like?”
“Well, I do like Joni Mitchell, but I listen to everything from Lorde to Maroon 5 to Taylor Swift to The Civil Wars to Frank Sinatra. I’ll listen to anything, as long as it’s good.” I like that and I completely agree.
“What’s your favorite song?” I ask. She rolls her eyes.
“That’s such a silly question. Your favorite song right at this moment isn’t going to be your favorite song at another moment. And my favorite song when I was ten isn’t the same as it is now.” I put my hands up, as if surrendering.
“I was just curious. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“What’s your favorite song?”
“‘Fire and Rain’ by James Taylor.” The words are out of my mouth as if they aren’t under my control. I didn’t mean to tell her that. I meant to tell her something by U2 or Queen or Jimi Hendrix. Not the real thing.