By the time the waiter arrives with our meals, I’m on my third glass of champagne and probably having the best conversation I’ve had in months. But the moment I get a mouthwatering whiff of sizzling Kobe beef, melted cheese, and crispy potatoes, I realize just how hungry I really am.
Not wasting any time, Ransom takes a bite and an erotic sound slips between his lips, causing the heat between my thighs to fluctuate into my stomach. He chews, slowly, deliberately then looks at me expectantly.
“How’s your salad?”
I look down at the plate of greens topped with bleu cheese, candied walnuts, and house-smoked bacon. Any other day, I would have found it fulfilling. Today, it seems as empty as my stomach. Still, I nod and reply, “Good.”
Ransom smiles as if he’s on to me and holds out his burger. “Do you want a bite?”
“No.”
“No? Are you sure? Because you’re staring at it with lust in your eyes.”
“No,” I repeat. Frustrated heat floods my cheeks, giving them an angry pink tinge.
“Why not?” He has the nerve to look sincerely confused, which only makes this situation even more awkward.
“Why not?” I mimic incredulously. “Because not only is it extremely inappropriate, it’s grossly unsanitary.”
Ransom laughs heartily, loud enough to draw a few eyes. He continues to hold that damn burger, bite side up, making me appear as some type of anorexic model he has to force-feed before she withers away. Meaning, no one in the restaurant deems this whole scenario as out of the ordinary and they go back to their meals. Still, I tuck my chin and avert my eyes, praying that no one will notice.
“I do not want to eat that,” I rage whisper between a clenched jaw.
“Why not?” He stuffs a few fries into his mouth to prove his point and continues his campaign with a mouthful of food. Nope. Definitely not a gentleman. “It’s probably the best thing you’ll ever put in your mouth . . . to date.”
I don’t miss the teasing wink of his eye, which only flares my temper. “I’m not eating after you, Ransom.”
A wolfish grin spreads his lips and he leans forward on one elbow, closing the space between us by inches that feel like miles. “Heidi, we’ve kissed. We’ve touched. We’ve fucked. I’ve sucked those pink-tipped nipples like twin cherry-flavored lollipops. I’ve had my tongue so deep inside your cu—”
“Ok!” I nearly shout, rocking my chair. “You want me to eat the damn burger? I will eat the goddamn burger!”
I lean over and take a small bite, which he happily offers. Once the juicy, premium beef, creamy Gruyère, black truffle aioli, and—oh my God, is that foie gras?—hit my tongue, I nearly have a mini orgasm right there at the table. I swear, my eyes even roll to the back of my head. Oh, sweet Jesus and all his disciples, it is the best thing I’ve ever put into my mouth. Like so fucking good, I’m pissed, because now I’ll never be able to eat another burger again.
“You have got to be shitting me,” I say flatly after chewing.
“Right?” He smiles broadly before taking his own bite. Right in the place I took mine. “I told you it was insane. Here, try these.”
He finger-feeds me French fries topped with fresh shaved parmesan, roasted garlic, and white truffle oil, and I’m all too happy to oblige. Of course, they are just as amazing, and I fight the urge to suck the salt from his fingertips.
“Oh, God. Those should be illegal,” I moan.
“Agreed. You should have ordered the same thing. The place is famous for it.”
“I know.”
Ransom brings a few fries to his lips, but stops before letting them tantalize his tongue. “Then why did you order a boring ass salad?”
I shrug. “It’s similar to what I usually order for lunch.”
“But it’s not what you want.”
I shrug again. “It’s practical.”
He looks affronted, and lets the fries fall from his fingers and back onto the plate. “Where the fuck is the fun in practical?”
Before I’m left with the awkward task of answering, the waiter comes to check on us, asking how we’re enjoying our meals. I try my best to compose myself, while Ransom just seems . . . put off.
“You can take that salad. It’s not what she wants,” he says, his tone tinted with aggravation.
“Certainly, monsieur,” the poor server replies, hurriedly taking the offensive plate of greens from the table. “Would the lady care for something else?”
I open my mouth to tell him that’s really not necessary, when Ransom speaks for me. “No thanks. She’ll share with me.”
I’m staring at him, quite gauchely with my eyes wide and mouth agape, when the waiter asks if he should bring another plate.
“No need. I’ll feed her,” Ransom answers, ignoring my glare. And with that, he scoots his plate closer toward the middle of the table.
I chuckle and shake my head, reaching for my glass of champagne. Ransom raises a curious brow. “Care to share with the class?”
“Nothing,” I reply, still shaking my head in disbelief. “It’s just . . . my friend—well client, really—has this theory about salad girls and burger girls.”
“Salad girls and burger girls?” He leans forward, planting his elbows on the table.
“He said that salad girls are the ones that will never keep you satisfied. They’re the ones more concerned with maintaining an image than being happy. It’s all about appearances. But burger girls will always be real with you. They’re comfortable in their skin. And because of that, they’ll always be confident in you as their partner and friend. And you’ll always be content—or satisfied, if you will—with them.”
“Humph,” Ransom muses, picking over the fries. “Sounds like a smart guy.”
“He is,” I smile. “Maybe you’ll meet him one day.”
“Maybe.”
That’s how we finish lunch—eating off the same plate and talking about everything from music to movies to books. To avoid further humiliation and hunger, I eat more than I probably should. Every bite seems to loosen the tension, and I find myself being more casual than I should with Ransom. He’s easy to talk to. And considering he’s an insanely gorgeous twenty-something-year-old man that has seen me naked, I know that can only be trouble. For me and for him.
By the time we finish it all off with dessert—a chocolate ganache confection that’s good enough to make angels weep—I almost forget that Ransom and I have shared so much more than a burger and fries and cake.
Almost.
Chapter Ten
With a full belly and a midday buzz, I decide to call it a day. I have no more appointments, and all correspondence can be done through text or email. I call Tamara and let her know that she can leave just as soon as she emails Ransom with the Plan of Action and forwards all my messages so I can take care of them at home. She’s delighted, of course, and prattles on about being able to make it to her favorite happy hour spot, which pretty much means she’ll be on the prowl. I tell her to have fun, yet threaten bodily harm if she comes into work hungover and/or in the same clothes. She tells me to stop being a hater and to let my “sexy ass husband” uncork the stick out of my ass.
I’m laughing as we hang up. Normally, I wouldn’t allow this type of familiarity with employees, but Tamara is different. She’s incredibly efficient, professional, and knowledgeable. I’ve been grooming her to take on a junior position, although I’d hate to lose the best assistant I’ve ever had. And to be honest, she’s my only friend in the city. Those are hard to come by, especially for me.
After tying up loose ends, including giving Lucia the rest of the day off, I decide to grab the book I’ve been dying to finish for the past month and take advantage of the quiet.