Marjorie looked over at him, startled. “Oh, I wouldn’t. That’d be rude. And I want to be here with you.” Her smile grew overbright, and he wondered if that was Marjorie’s version of flirting. It was awfully toothy. And was rudeness the only reason she wasn’t backing out of this date? Damn. His ego had just taken a massive beating at the thought.
He guided her inside. The entryway to the restaurant was crowded with waiting people, but Rob Cannon never waited. He kept his hand firmly on Marjorie’s back and pushed forward. At the sight of him, the maître d’ nodded and grabbed two menus. He led them to a small, private corner of the restaurant, the white tablecloth lit in the center by an antique bubble glass lantern. Nearby, several couples moved on the dance floor.
Everyone looked in their direction, and he felt Marjorie shrink a little more. He wondered if she had any idea yet as to who she was dating, or if she was getting an inkling, thanks to the quick service of the mâitre d’, who knew how to deal with celebrities.
Nah. She probably thought everyone was staring at her skimpy dress. Though she probably wouldn’t be wrong on that aspect, either. Rob caught a flash of black panties as Marjorie sat down in the chair he pulled out for her. The mâitre d’ handed them menus, talking about the name of their waiter and the specials for the day, but Rob wasn’t listening. He was watching Marjorie’s face. She stared up at the man, rapt, as if he were reciting poetry to her instead of fish specials. When he finally left the damn table, Marjorie looked over at Rob and gave him a hesitant smile, and then opened her menu.
Her eyes widened and she immediately slammed it shut again.
“Something wrong?” Rob asked.
She leaned forward, the menu pressing against her breasts in a rather delicious way. “Did you see the prices here?”
“No.” He flipped open the menu and scanned it, looking for something outrageous. “What’s wrong?”
“They’re charging fifteen dollars for a house salad.” She looked scandalized.
He chuckled. “Wait until you see the wine list.”
But this time, she didn’t smile. If anything, she looked more uncomfortable.
A waiter stopped by and put down two crystalline glasses of water. “Welcome to Le Poisson. My name is Aubrey and I’ll be your waiter tonight. Shall we start with a nice vintage? We have a bottle of 2008 Didier Dagueneau Silex Sauvignon Blanc that has a lovely grapefruit scent. It makes the perfect compliment to seafood.”
And he guessed it was the most expensive bottle they had on hand at the moment, since they were in the VIP section. He shrugged. He preferred his alcohol hard, but wine seemed more civilized. “Wine?” He asked Marjorie.
She hesitated a moment, thinking. He could practically see the wheels turning on her face, and he expected her to decline. Maybe she didn’t drink. But she nodded, her eyes wide again. “Wine sounds good.”
“Bring the bottle,” Rob told him. “We’ll take it.”
“Very good,” Aubrey the waiter said, and disappeared.
Rob sipped his water—now there was a fucking novelty—and watched Marjorie reopen the menu and skim the pages quietly. “You’re looking for the cheapest thing, aren’t you?”
She looked up, startled, and then gave him a sheepish glance. “That obvious?”
“I’m paying, so order what you like. Even if it’s the filet mignon.” He gave her a teasing wag of his eyebrows.
To his surprise, her face turned a mottled red, and she licked her lips nervously. “Rob . . . I . . .”
Oh hell. He’d let Douchey Rob out of the bag again, hadn’t he? “It was a tease, nothing more. I’m sorry if it alarmed you.” Christ, now he was apologizing for cracking jokes? Were his nuts in a sling? But she continued to look uncomfortable, so he added, “You should know that I expect nothing out of this date . . . except possibly a second date.”
Her smile brightened. “I think I can handle that . . .”
He put his hand on the table, palm up, and inviting her to put her hand into his. “Trust me.”
Marjorie gave him a shy look and put her hand in his. “I do trust you.”
Those were rare words for him, he had to admit. Trust Rob Cannon? Normally he’d be laughed out the door. But this girl with her big eyes and her tall body and the breasts that were practically falling out of her ridiculous dress? He wanted her to trust him. Rob squeezed her hand and then ran his thumb across her palm, enjoying her little jerk of response. “I’m glad, Marjorie.”
“Call me Marj. Everyone does.”
Dear god. He was dating a Marj. That was fucking horrible. “Must I?” It made him think of cigarettes and BenGay. “You’re Marjorie to me, which is beautiful.”
She gave a happy wiggle in her seat, which made her unbound breasts bounce . . . and dear god, it was painful to keep eye contact and not leer at the tits just begging for his attention. But somehow, miraculously, he did it. God, being Dull Rob suuuucked. But Marjorie kept smiling at him, which somehow made it worth it. “All right then . . . Robert.”
He winced. Robert Cannon was his “business” name, and he had started to hate every time he heard the second syllable of his name. “I prefer Rob. It’s what close friends call me.”
“All right.” Her smile grew broader, her hand flexing against his as he ran his thumb over her palm again. She had the most delightful full-body shiver every time he did that, so he was going to keep right on doing it. “What’s your last name?”
He hesitated for a moment. Did she want it because she was going to google him? Or was it simply an innocent question? He had no idea, but he figured he might as well throw it all out there. “Cannon.”
She merely looked thoughtful. “It suits you.”
“It does?” Was this sexual innuendo? He’d heard them all before, and they were usually fucking awful. Rob’s packing a cannon. Fire a shot over my prow, Rob. Do me in the poop deck. But he’d never heard innuendo come out of such an innocent-looking face.
“I think so. It sounds strong and fierce.”
“Yeah.” Christ, she really had no idea who she was dating, did she? Why did he find her innocence so fucking adorable? “What’s your last name again?”
“Ivarsson. Norwegian ancestors, hence the height.” She grimaced.
“There’s nothing wrong with your height.”
She didn’t look convinced, but he noticed she tactfully changed the subject. “So . . . your friends call you Rob?”
“Sweetie, I don’t have many friends.”
“I’m not your sweetie.”
Ah, a spine. So there was one under there after all. He liked a bit of sass in the right girl. “Fair enough. I apologize.”
She nodded. “Don’t apologize . . . cupcake. Just don’t do it again.”
He laughed.
She pulled her hand from his, and he was a little disappointed at the loss of contact. Marjorie picked up the menu and studied it again, her shoulders relaxing a bit. “I don’t suppose you’re going to just let me order a nice bowl of soup?”
“Nope. It’ll go shi—er, badly with the really expensive wine.”