Our server appears. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Vitale?”
I raise a brow to Aria and she shakes her head.
“We’re good. Tell Vinny it was perfect, just like always.”
He nods and disappears, leaving me to the conundrum that is Aria. I’ve never seen a woman as a challenge … I think I could get off on it.
And her.
I turn my focus back to the first dinner date I’ve had in forever. “There’s something about you. You’re confident in your skin. You’re straightforward. You don’t rattle off bullshit conversation just to fill space, which makes every single word you utter mean something. Come to think of it, I’ve never clung to anyone’s words like I have yours, Aria. Ever.”
She’s as cool as the nip in the crisp fall air. “Take my word for it, those are not the qualities to look for in a doctor. But they are qualities of a shitty date, which doesn’t say much about you.”
“See there? I’m finding you more tempting than the top-of-the-line Porterhouse I just inhaled.” I lean forward. “Let’s play the hypothetical game. If I were your patient, I’d tell you how I haven’t slept with a woman in over a year. And despite being a single man for the last six months, the last woman I was with was not my wife. I’d also tell you I hadn’t fucked my wife for so long, I’ve lost count of how many years it’s been. As a psychologist, what would you say about that?”
She chews on the inside of her lip before answering, “I’d say you should’ve invested in some marriage counseling a long time ago.”
“That ship has sailed. I’m not married anymore.”
“That’s good,” she retorts. “Since you auctioned yourself off and insisted on taking me to dinner. I wouldn’t be very happy if you were still married.”
I lean back in my chair. “Sarcasm doesn’t look nearly as good on you as that tight-ass dress and those fuck-me heels.”
“I guess that’s why I’m the psychologist and you’re the hero. You don’t know the difference between sarcasm and flat-out honesty. Psychologists are rarely sarcastic. Stay in your lane, Brand.”
I let my lips tip on one side. “I think I’d very much like to be in your lane, Aria. Heed my warning, I tailgate.”
“Are you threatening me?”
I shake my head. “Informing you. I don’t play games. Everyone in my life knows exactly where they stand with me.”
“Ask for the check. I’m ready to go home,” she demands.
I stand and pull out my wallet. After tossing three one-hundred-dollar bills on the table for the tip, I hold my arm out. “There’s no check. But I will take you home now.”
She hesitates and I wonder what she’s going to do. If she were any other woman, she’d either jump my bones, order an Uber, or dial nine-one-one because I’ve rattled her to the core. She should pick the latter, but I’m not going to tell her that.
Instead, the good doctor stands, collects her wrap, and allows me to lead her out of the restaurant with my hand firmly glued to the small of her back—my fingertips flirting with the swell of her ass. Even though every single eye in the place is on us, she isn’t fazed, holding her head as high as a beautiful thoroughbred.
But given her bio, she’s been trained as one, which is exactly what I need.
Aria
Of course he couldn’t just take me to the Olive Garden down the street. No, the man drove me all the way to Seattle.
On the ride back, Brand allows us to fall into the awkward silence I initiated when we left for my paid date hours before. I want to thank him in the parking lot and put this whole thing behind me, but he insists on walking me to my door like a proper hero. I climb the three flights of stairs as fast as I can in my heels. I hear him casually keep up with me, taking two stairs at a time for every one of mine.
I’m ready to shut Brand Vitale out of my life, once and for all, by slamming the door in his face. My key is in the lock and the knob is half turned, when he snakes an arm around me and wraps his big hand over mine.
The heat of his body presses into me and I’m forced to fight off the chill that runs over my skin. His other arm wraps around my midriff and his lips hit my ear through the blanket of my hair.
“The only thing that kept me from touching you at dinner was the fact we were in public, and despite my age, my godmother would still whack me over the head for being brazen in her restaurant.” His hold tightens under my breasts. “I liked watching you eat.”
My hand squeezes the doorknob in unison with my thighs. I don’t dare move for fear my body will defy and humiliate me. “That’s odd.”
He shifts and his every muscle that touches me tightens. “Do psychologists often call people odd to their faces?”
I pull in a deep breath and try to ignore his erect cock pressed to the top of my ass through his trousers and my dress. “Sometimes.”
“That surprises me.” He drags the tip of his nose over the curve of my ear. “But what do I know? I’ve never been in therapy.”
“I call it as I see it.”
“Hmm. Is this more normal?” He stresses the word as he presses his hips into me, the underside of his cock pressed between my ass cheeks. “I liked sharing a meal with you and I want to do it again soon.”
“There’s no such thing as normal,” I mutter through a shaky breath. Brand Vitale has broken through my shield—the one I use so often to prove to the rest of the world how normal I am, even if I am secretly a fraud.
I’m surrounded by the grumpy hero—a beast of a man who seems to get whatever he wants, eats five-star meals for free, and tips three-hundred dollars like it’s no big deal. My father doesn’t even do that. But, then again, he’s an asshole.
The jury is still out on Brand. He has asshole qualities, but to reach the level of my father is a whole other beast.
His tone rumbles down my spine that would be directly connected to his cock if it weren’t for our clothes. “That’s good, because I’m anything but normal.”
I swallow over the lump in my throat. “It doesn’t take a psychologist to figure that out. Don’t bother wasting your money on therapy.”
A smile forms against the skin below my ear as he inhales. I have a feeling a smile from Brand is so rare, I’m sorry I don’t get to see it. “Thanks for the tip.”
He presses his hips into me again. Hmm … tip. I’m too busy struggling to stay vertical to form an answer.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Don’t,” I plead.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want you to.”
His arm around my midriff shifts and he brushes the underside of my breasts with his thumb. “Your body disagrees.”
“My body doesn’t know what it’s talking about.”
He ignores me. “Tomorrow.”
Then he leans in and presses his lips to my jugular and leaves them there. I gasp and I’m sure he can feel my pulse racing. He is a paramedic, after all. Though, I doubt they’re taught how to take someone’s pulse with only their lips.
I force my brain to crank over and do something. “Thanks for dinner. Or, you know, tipping so generously.”