“Actually, make that two shots.”
“Okay.” She goes to walk off.
“Can you hurry with the shots please?” I all but beg.
She smiles broadly. “One of those nights?”
“You could say that.”
“Sure thing.” She disappears out and I look around the room. Wow. It really is out of this world, looks like I’m in a fancy ski lodge in Switzerland or something . . . not that I’ve ever been to a fancy ski lodge in Switzerland, but this is what I imagine it would look like.
The door opens and Elliot appears, smiles, bends, and kisses me before taking a seat. “Hello.”
He’s very kissy.
I force a nervous smile and the waitress arrives with a silver tray.
Oh no, you were supposed to bring that before he got here, fool.
“Here you are, one margarita and two tequila shots.” She places them down in front of me; my eyes flick up to Elliot and he smirks, clearly amused.
“Thanks.”
“Thirsty?” he asks.
I nod, pick up my margarita and take a sip, wishing I could drain the whole damn glass.
“I’ll have a bottle of Barbaresco 1996,” Elliot tells the waitress.
“Of course, sir.” She disappears again.
With a shaky hand I sip my margarita and Elliot leans his face on his hand as he watches me. His pointer finger runs up his temple, and he seems completely relaxed. “Are you nervous?”
“Little bit.” I take a bigger gulp of my drink.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You can pass me that tequila.”
He raises an eyebrow and passes me a shot glass.
Oh hell, I look like the world’s biggest loser, but it’s either skull this or be a nervous nutcase all night. I tip my head back and drain the glass.
“You swallow well.”
I glance up.
His eyes are dark and we both know he’s not talking about the tequila.
Okay, it’s official, Elliot Miles has plans to break my vagina tonight.
I can already tell.
“Umm . . .” I hold my hand out for the other glass, not drunk enough for this conversation.
He passes the other shot glass over and I knock it back, just as the waitress arrives with the fancy bottle of wine. “Here you are, sir.” She pours a little into a glass for Elliot to taste.
He swishes it around his mouth. “That’s fine, thank you. We’d like privacy please. I’ll call for you when I want something.”
I can see her smirk under her serious facade.
“Yes, sir.” She disappears back into the kitchen and I know that she knows exactly why I’m slugging tequila like a sailor. I want to go back to the kitchen, discuss this messed-up situation, and drink with her.
Elliot reaches under the table and, with a sharp movement, pulls my chair around closer to his. “That’s better.” He puts his large hand over my thigh. “I want to touch you.”
The heat of the tequila begins to warm my blood. “You’re very touchy,” I whisper.
“You’re very touchable.” His eyes drop to my lips and he reaches down and cups my face. “What did you do while I was away?”
“Nothing much . . .” My voice trails off; how am I supposed to string a sentence together when he’s looking at me like that?