by Evans, Katy
“Believe it or not, I can work and drink.”
“Good, because you need a lesson on how a real man drinks. None of that Montezuma shit from Tim’s.”
He holds up the glass of wine. “I opened this. It’s not bad. Expensive?”
“Very,” I tell him, going behind the bar. “But a Banks man will only drink wine with dinner. When you go out for drinks, you’ll need to order a real man’s drink.”
“Tequila ain’t a real man’s drink?”
I shake my head.
“No wonder he doesn’t like to fuck.”
I smirk at him and say, “When you go up to the bar, you will order a Macallan 25 neat. Now, not every bar will have this scotch, but the ones on the fashion circuit will because they all know it’s my father’s favorite drink.”
He raises his eyebrows. I take out the glass tumbler and put a splash in there. I’ve made this same drink about a million times for my dad.
He reaches over and grabs it, bringing it to his lips.
I shake my head. “Swirl it first a little.”
He does, then looks at me for the go-ahead to toss it back. I nod.
“But don’t chug it. Take a sip and kind of roll it around your tongue. Chew it.”
He watches me as he takes a sip, doing exactly as I told him. When he swallows a bit too soon for my liking, he says, “What? Did you want me to gargle too?”
“How was it?”
He shrugs and peers deep into the glass. “I guess it’ll do the trick. But I’m a tequila guy. How much would this run you in a bar?”
“Two hundred. Maybe more.”
If he’s impressed, he doesn’t show it. He simply says, “Better not let it go to waste,” and then chugs the rest of it.
Sigh.
I reach into the humidor, where I keep a stash of my father’s favorite cigars for those rare, once-every-few-months evenings when he comes over for dinner. I offer the open box to him.
He shakes his head. “Quit smoking when I was eighteen.”
“To smoke is human; to smoke cigars is divine.” I take one out, open his jacket, and stuff one in the inside pocket. “That and a glass of scotch is a singular after-dinner pleasure, mellows you out.”
“I’d rather just fuck.” He shrugs. “Cheaper?”
I give him a look and shake my head slightly. “James,” I say, groaning.
“Then after you,” he says, sounding disappointed as he puts his hand on the small of my back.
I take one step, then stop. “That’s not how we enter a room.”
He cocks a brow. “Why not?”
“It’s too personal.”
“Putting my hand on your back is personal?”
“Yes. When we enter the ballroom, you’ll need to hold out your arm and offer it to me like this.” I show him a gentleman’s gesture. “I’ll accept, and you’ll lead me in. We’ll be greeted by reporters, bloggers, all sorts of people who will be there to learn more about Banks LTD and the new line. Most importantly, they’ll be there to meet you.”
“If you’re wearing that dress . . .” He lets out a whistle, eyes sparkling. “They won’t see me.”
I blush, and my body reacts with pinging nipples, tingling thighs, a tighter stomach, and clenching inner muscles. Damn traitorous body.
I sigh and hope it doesn’t sound like one of those dreamy little sighs.
“You like it when I compliment you, Elizabeth?”
I don’t know what’s worse. When he calls me Lizzy. Or when he calls me Elizabeth.
“I like complimenting you. And you look very nice in charcoal.” I try to switch topics.
“You look lovely in red.”
God help me.
“Thank you.” I want to tell him that he should be gracious as well, but manners will come later.
He tilts his head up and holds out his arm. “It’s good to see ya tonight, Miss Banks.”
“The ya must go,” I tell him, hoping to keep our practice run in a positive light. “Use the traditional you wherever possible. In fact, working on vocals and vocabulary is next on my list. But first . . . dining etiquette.”
He roughly pulls my arm through his. “So we walk together. Like this?”
“Yes.” I’m breathless again.
I relax until his free hand strokes mine. As we walk, my body reacts to him, and every nerve ending feels alive and wired.
We stop in front of the mirrors.
“Now what?” He grins at our reflections. “Do we strip off here and try something else or . . .”
“I’ll stay in the red dress.”
James runs those twinkling, mischievous blue eyes all over me. “You really do look great in red.”
“Thank you.” I like that he likes it, but I’m trying to keep it together. “You can try another suit.”
“How about I just try you on? We’ll be a good fit. Promise.”
I swallow, laughing because I can’t help it.
Smiling, he leans forward. I’m a breath away from his lips.
“You’re tempted.” His words a dark, tantalizing murmur.
I am. I shake my head anyway.
“You are.” He nods at my chest. “Those beaded nipples?” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Say otherwise.” He holds me at arm’s length. With the distance between us, I look down, and he catches me. “And when you do that?” He grins. “You send mixed signals.” He gives me a saucy look. “I like it.”
“You can’t keep doing this. We . . .”
“Feels right to me.”
He has a way of turning everything around, and I can’t win. There’s no point in trying now. I’d only back myself into a darker corner.
“Feels right to you too. Your little fists balled at your side? That’s because you want to stop yourself from touching me. Those legs, that hint of skin showing when the dress shifts? That’s for me. Nobody else is here.” His voice is dark with desire. “All of it—this—is all for me, Lizzy.”
I can hardly talk now.
“I think maybe I chose the wrong dress,” I say, feeling light headed. “I’ll be right back.”
He grabs me before I can get away. One hand slides up my face. The other drags up and down my torso. Now it’s anybody’s game, and somehow it’s turned into a very provocative, and quite thrilling, inappropriate game. “I guess we’re all finished today.”
“With business.”
“I see.” I’m supposed to be in control but can’t find it. In James’s arms, there’s no control to be found. “So you liked the designs.”
His eyes dip lower. “Yours.”
“Not mine,” I say, already aware of his tightening grip. “I want you to like what you wear.”
“I’d be happier naked.” He grins. “YOU would be happier naked.”
“Well, we can’t exactly work in our birthday suits.”
“Trust me. We definitely could.”
Pull. It. Together. Banks.
“Tell you what. We’ll finish here tomorrow. Feel free to change back to your clothes.” I point to his street clothes. “Meet me in the dining room. The next lesson is one we need to master as soon as possible.”
“I don’t need you to show me how to eat, baby.”
“Wanna bet? Don’t call me baby.”
“How about you let me take you out again. On a date?”
“We’re not . . . we can’t go on a date.”
“Oh, we will. Baby.”
“Dream on, Devil,” I toss back as I head down the hall to change, taking care not to steal a peek behind my shoulders at his gorgeous body as he changes back into his street clothes.
DINING ETIQUETTE
Elizabeth
I’m glad we’ll be dining now so that he can’t be looming so close to me, unsettling me.
I think we’re both a little pissy because we’d rather be doing something else.
Each other.
“Sit.” I pat the back of the white parsons chair, and right as he starts to sit
, I move the chair. Revenge for him teasing me like crazy just now.
He loses his balance but catches himself before plummeting to the floor.
“What the . . .”
“A gentleman always offers a chair to the lady at his side, and he never sits before all ladies have been seated.” I notice he’s not paying attention. “Need a demonstration?”
“How hard can it be to hold out a chair?”
“Okay, then.” I wait. “Well?”
James rolls his eyes and stands to full height, exasperated as he pulls out and holds the chair for me. I slide in front of it and wait for the chair to be scooted forward. As soon as it is, I sit . . . and immediately fall to the floor.
“What the hell was that?” I glare up at him.
“Fair play.” He laughs as he reaches for me.
“This isn’t funny, Rowan!” My ass aches.
“It’s hilarious, if you ask me.” He winks. “How’s it feel when the chair is pulled out from under you?”
“I was trying to teach you a lesson.”
“Ditto, baby.”
“I don’t need lessons in manners.” I glare up at him. “You do.”
“Clearly.” He’s mocking me with his stiff upper lip. “For future reference, you can let me know what’s expected. There’s no reason for etiquette lessons to become more dangerous than ice hockey.”
“Says the man who didn’t find his ass against a hard floor.”
He offers to assist. “Shall we start again?” I place my hand in his. He hauls me forward with so much force that I land against his chest with a thump.
He brackets his arm around me and holds me close. “See? That wasn’t as bad as you first imagined. Was it?”
“James, you use every opportunity to come on to me.”
“I thought that was part of my charm.”
“You aren’t paid to think,” I say, my ego terribly wounded because he used my tactics against me. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t use tactics. Maybe he’s right. Perhaps all I need to do is make a request.
It would definitely be much easier if he followed a few!
“Let’s try this again,” I say, backing away from his embrace.
“Shall you have a seat?”
“What?” I croak. “No.” I hold up my hand. “You’re trying too hard to be proper. Don’t say shall unless it suits.”
“And when does it suit?”
“Whenever it sounds natural.” I think. “Like before, when you said, ‘Shall we start again?’ That was okay. It’s not the norm, mind you, but it wasn’t one of those in-your-face attempts to sound like a polished gentleman. In today’s world, we all hear ‘shall we’ from time to time, but it’s rare when it’s used for anything more than a gesture to suggest walking forward or ahead of someone.”
“After all that? I won’t make the same mistake again.” He looks frustrated. “I’ll try not to sound too stiff.”
“Very well.”
He thins his lips and stares at mine.
“What?”
“You just said . . .” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“You sounded stiff.”
“My peers expect me to be stiff in social situations. I was raised by traditional au pairs and American nannies.”
“So you can get away with it.”
“Right. But I guess you should, too, because you’re supposed to be THE Banks man.”
“I’m an improvement on the Banks man,” he says. “I fuck.”
I blow out a hard breath and go to the bar for wine. “I need a drink.”
“Thought we weren’t drinking on the job.”
“We are now.”
“So basically as long as I play by your rules, we’re all good.”
“You’re catching on.” I place the bottle on the table. “Now, where were we?”
“I was about to offer you a chair.”
“Right.” I glance over my shoulder before sliding between the chair and table.
James holds the chair out for me and leaves me there as soon as I sit. I immediately stand again.
“Now what?”
“You should keep your hands on the chair until I’m seated and lightly scoot the chair forward before joining me at the table.”
“I’ll remember that.”
I remain standing.
“Really?” He exhales and rakes a hand through his hair, eyes flashing dark blue in exasperation.
“We have another twenty or so minutes before the food arrives.”
“Or we could both be seated and enjoy each other’s company.”
“James.”
He releases a ragged breath. “Please be seated, Lizzy.” He pulls the chair out a little more for me.
“Thank you.” I’m pleasantly surprised when he scoots my chair close to the table as I’m seated and then waits until I’m comfortable at the table before taking his seat across from me. “See? That was perfect. Right?”
“Of course it was.” He looks at the silverware, jaw clenching. Obviously still irked about all this. “And what the hell is all this?”
“A place setting.”
“We couldn’t use one fork, one spoon, and a knife?” He picks up the butter knife. “And what’s this? A tool to use in case we need to discreetly remove a piece of lint from the tablecloth?”
“It’s a butter knife.” Is he serious? I try to read his expression and decide he is. “Would you like to pour the wine?”
“Sure.” Reaching out, he places the bottle under his nose and sniffs. “Smells fine.” He pours himself a full glass, then pours mine.
I watch with my mouth open, then make a note to work on wine selection at another time.
He lifts his glass. “A toast.”
“I can’t wait to hear this.”
“To the woman who hired me. May she change me into a better man.”
I lift my glass and then pause, noticing the challenge in his eyes.
He drinks, then asks, “What?”
“I don’t want to change you into a ‘better’ man, James. I . . .”
“It’s okay.” He refills his glass. “Don’t feel rotten about it. At least you have a reason for wanting to change me.” He drinks. “Most women want to change their men for personal reasons. This is professional. Strictly professional. All for the job. Right?”
Right.
“James . . .”
Before I can say anything, the buzzer alerts us to our arriving takeout.
“Saved by the bell,” he says, holding up his hand to stop me from leaving the table. “Please. Stay seated. I’d like to eat sometime this evening, so I’ve got this.” As he walks away, he adds under his breath, “God knows if you get up from the table, it could be hours before we get to eat our meal.”
“Dinner is served.” He grins when he returns. “Where do you want these?” He lifts two white bags.
“Anywhere on the counter is fine. I can transfer everything to the serving dishes.”
“You don’t need to go to that much trouble, heiress.”
“Sure I do,” I say, on my feet already. “Only the best for you.”
“Or is it for you?”
“For us,” I assure him, hoping we can have a relaxed dinner.
“That table is kind of intimidating.”
“I’ll walk you through it.”
“Do.”
“What?” I stop unpacking the containers.
“Do be so kind as to walk me through it now. Before we eat.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to . . .”
“No.” He shakes his head and steps aside with his arm out. “After you, Miss Banks.”
We return to the dining room, and he immediately asks, “So what do you want me to know?”
“It would be easier if we had our food.”
“Dinner is the trial run. I want the basics. Give me that much, and then you can give me a fair chance to show you I’m a fast learner.”
�
��Are you?”
He grins his devilish grin. “Never heard any complaints.”
“And there he is.” I laugh. “Good to have you back.”
“Honey, I didn’t go anywhere. You want to be respectable. I respect that. Let’s get to it. I’m hungry.” His phone beeps, and he checks his message.
“Are you expecting an important call?”
“No.”
“Good to hear. Silence your phone before you sit down at any table.”
“Okay.” He does. “And then what?”
“Napkin in your lap. The old rule of thumb is to do this after the hostess does it, but it’s perfectly fine to do it as soon as you sit down.”
He tosses his napkin in his lap. “Now what?”
I cringe when I notice his elbow on the table.
“Something wrong?”
Noticing the irritation in his voice, I try to take a gentle approach. “You don’t want to put your elbows on the table before the meal. It’s too casual and inappropriate.”
“Elbows. Got it.”
“After dinner, it’s okay to be casual and rest an elbow on the table. Some men even lean in and talk to their female counterparts, and that’s acceptable. Before we eat, however, it’s not.”
“I’m with you.” He forces a smile. “Let’s do this quickly so we can move along to the meal.”
“Right.” I tap the table. “Next. Let’s look at silverware order.”
“Looks like a perfect setting for wasted time.”
“It’s more like a perfect place setting.”
“Or a table with too many glasses, plates, and silverware.” He looks up at me. “Do you really think this is necessary?”
“It will be.” I know he’s frustrated, so I offer quick tips. “Use forks with your flat plates. Use spoons for anything served in a bowl.”
“So I’m supposed to use all these forks for one plate?”
“No. I’m getting to that.” I take a breath. “Okay, the best way to explain this is to work from the outside in. You’ll cut with your dominant hand, set down the knife, and take a bite. If something is too far out of your reach, ask for someone to pass it. If someone asks for the pepper, pass the salt and pepper.”