Winning Her Over

by Alexa Rowan

  She was suddenly and painfully aware of the difference in their financial situations—she a struggling small business owner, he by all indications a successful, up-and-coming attorney. How might the restaurant appear to him? Shabby? Cheap? Lowbrow? Brenna had always cared more about the quality of the food being served than a restaurant’s ambiance, but not everyone felt that way.

  Cringing inside, she recalled a particularly unpleasant brunch with Gregory and his parents, not too long before he’d broken up with her. His parents had complained nonstop about the adorable diner she’d selected for its delicious comfort food and friendly service. It had been clear from their frowns and pursed lips that they’d thought her choice reflected poorly on her. And that someone like her wasn’t good enough for their son, and never would be.

  Brenna consciously pushed aside her negative thoughts. At least she knew she’d have a delicious meal tonight, no matter how the not-date turned out.

  “Hey.”

  Cal’s greeting startled her out of her musings. She looked up, drawn unerringly to his warm and direct gaze.

  “Hi,” she said, just as breathless as if two days hadn’t passed since she’d last seen him. He was devastatingly sexy in a brown leather jacket over a light blue polo shirt, with flat-front jeans that hung just right on his muscled frame. Brenna was also wearing jeans, along with a teal green scoop-necked sweater and black ballet flats. She always felt a vague sense of relief when she shed her uniform at the end of each workday, but today she’d been excited to change back into the street clothes she’d chosen with Cal in mind.

  “This place smells incredible!” he said. “Thanks for suggesting it. I never would’ve known about it otherwise.” He was looking around the restaurant with an open and eager expression, and Brenna relaxed.

  “I made a reservation. Sometimes there can be a wait, and I’m starving.” She smiled at him nervously before stepping up to the podium to give her name to the hostess.

  “Well, we can’t have that.” His husky rumble made her imagination skip straight over dinner to the part where she invited him back to her condo and took him up on the unspoken promise lurking beneath his words.

  “Two hungry people sharing a meal,” she muttered in a futile attempt to rein in her hormones.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said airily. “Let’s eat.”

  The hostess seated them at a small table off to the side. The setting wasn’t private by any means, but it was quieter than the main dining room, for which Brenna was grateful. She’d never realized how noisy Ciro’s was before, when she was eating there by herself or with a friend. On a not-date, however, she didn’t want to have to shout to be heard.

  Cal steered the conversation to noncontroversial topics as they waited for their server, put in their orders, and settled down to wait for their meals. After a few minutes, the server returned with the red wine Cal had selected and a basket of focaccia.

  Brenna watched, amused, as the bottle was formally presented to Cal for inspection. He winked at her when the server bent to pour a taste for his approval. After filling each of their glasses, the server left them to enjoy their wine.

  “That whole tasting thing is such a sham.” She took a sip of perfectly acceptable cabernet. “It’s not like anyone ever sends it back, unless they’re trying to get free wine or something.”

  “I dunno. One time I was at this insanely expensive restaurant with a couple of partners after we’d finished taking a deposition in Atlanta.” He idly swirled the dark ruby liquid in his glass. “They were both totally into wine, and the guy who tasted it said it was fine. But when the other guy tried it, he insisted that this three-hundred-dollar bottle they’d just opened and poured for us hadn’t been aged properly and had sour notes, so he sent it back.” Cal shook his head mournfully. “I tried it before they took it away, and it was still better than any wine I’d ever had before. Or since. I have no idea what he was talking about.”

  She raised her glass. “To untutored palates.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  Candlelight glinted along the rim of Cal’s glass as it clinked against hers, and was reflected as glowing pinpoints in his silvery eyes.

  Brenna glanced away. Not a date. Though she was starting to wish it was. At this point, she was getting used to the idea Cal was no longer a client, so long as they never had another professional massage session. Easily managed, since he’d be going back to DC after his trial ended—a thought that was far more disappointing than it ought to have been.

  Masking her emotions, she plucked a piece of still-warm bread out of the basket. “You should try the focaccia. They bake it here.”

  “Okay.” He selected a piece, too. “So, how did a masseuse from California end up in Boston?”

  She suppressed a wince. Correcting his terminology might embarrass him, but it was still going to be the easiest part of her answer. “Massage therapist, if you don’t mind.”

  He paused, bread halfway to his mouth. “Oh! Sorry about that.”

  “No problem.” Now she just had to explain her cross-country relocation without revealing too much. She took a sip of wine to moisten her dry throat.

  How much of the story should she divulge? Gregory had moved back to Boston after graduation to work in his family’s real estate management business, and he’d asked her to come with him. They’d lived in one of his family’s apartments—a gorgeous brownstone they never could have afforded on their own, even with their generous salaries. And then he’d unceremoniously ejected her from his life, because she no longer fit into it.

  There was no way in hell she wanted to get too far into that when she and Cal were just starting to get to know each other. So she leaned toward him, as if they were about to share a juicy piece of gossip, and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Well, you see, there was this guy…” She trailed off, not needing to tell him the ending to that familiar story. “But you probably don’t want to hear about that.” She looked up at him earnestly from under her lashes and changed the subject. “Besides, I want to hear more about you, Cal.”

  “How about the nutshell version?” he offered.

  She nodded, grateful to have dodged that particular conversational bullet.

  “I grew up in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Went to Brown undergrad and then straight through to law school at Stanford.”

  The perfect moment dangled right there, when she should tell him she’d gone to college at Stanford, too. They could try to figure out whether their time at her alma mater had overlapped, and whether they knew anyone in common.

  But then he would ask how a Stanford grad had ended up as a massage therapist instead of working at a high-tech start-up, or as a lawyer or investment banker or some other so-called respectable profession. After Gregory, she just couldn’t bring herself to let an obviously successful guy like Cal judge her that way. And find her lacking.

  Besides, it wasn’t like this farce of a date would ever go anywhere.

  So, with a pang of guilt for not trusting him, she seized on a different commonality to keep their conversation flowing. “I grew up about forty-five minutes from there, in Santa Cruz. Did you like the Bay Area?”

  “I loved it out there. Wish I could have stayed.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He leaned toward her, and she mirrored him, eagerly anticipating his response. Then he said conspiratorially, “Well, you see, there was this girl…”

  She laughed, and he joined in. “Okay, I walked into that one,” she said. “And so the girl enticed you out to DC? Or was there a stop somewhere in between?”

  “Yeah, DC. I joined Carter, Munroe and Hodges right out of law school. Worked my butt off for the past eight years, but I love it, and it seems to be a good fit for me.”

  Their meals came then, and it was all she could do not to voraciously attack her pizza as soon as it was placed in front of her. As usual, she hadn’t had time for lunch, and the energy bar she’d wolfed down
between her afternoon clients had long since worn off.

  Luckily Cal seemed just as hungry, quickly polishing off his first slice of asparagus and ham before stealing a slice of her porcini and homemade sausage. She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t otherwise protest his presumptuousness.

  “Pizza tax.” He grinned at her before biting off a mouthful of her meal. Then he groaned, his eyes rolling back into his head. After he swallowed, his eyes slowly opened. “Oh my God. That sausage is incredible. I think I’m dying!”

  Brenna stilled, her unvoiced protest forgotten as she feasted on his expression. If Cal looked anything like that when he came, it would be the sexiest thing she’d ever see.

  She trembled with an unholy eagerness to find out, squeezing her thighs together under the table. This wasn’t just a meal between friends. It was foreplay, and it was killing her. Because despite her incredibly hot, incredibly detailed fantasies of bringing Cal back to her place after dinner, she knew it wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t a one-night-stand kind of girl. She wasn’t even a casual sex kind of girl.

  So, with the sparks Cal had set off already incinerating her from within, Brenna played out the charade he’d arranged so she could feel comfortable about going out with him. She swiped a slice of his pizza and bit into it, her eyes never leaving his. Then she swallowed, grinning evilly. Like a friend might do. A non-lustful, non-sex-starved friend who wasn’t in the midst of a very lengthy dry spell. “Now we’re even.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Nope.” The heat flaring in his eyes was unmistakable. “We’re just getting started.”

  WHAT THE HELL HAD HE been thinking?

  As Cal waited for their check, and for Brenna’s return from the ladies’ room, he believed he knew the answer to that. His brain had taken a back seat to instincts urging him to break from The Plan, for once.

  He’d devised The Plan in high school, soon after he’d decided he wanted to be a partner in a law firm when he grew up—just like his dad. The Plan had evolved over time, but had always channeled his drive and ambition and given him the focus to succeed.

  It was why he’d been captain of the high school football team and valedictorian. It was why he’d been an Eagle Scout, and why he’d graduated summa cum laude from Brown. It was why he’d been invited to join the Order of the Coif when he’d graduated from law school. And it was why he was now on the verge of beating the odds facing all associates at large law firms, to make partner at one of the most prestigious “BigLaw” firms in the country.

  The only problem was, he was six fucking years too late.

  Cal had pushed forward with The Plan anyway. It had taken his mind off his grief. But he was having a hard time focusing on achieving his dreams at the moment. For God’s sake, in a day or two he’d be delivering the closing argument that could clinch the partnership decision, if he performed well. Yet here he was, going out for pizza with a smart, sexy masseuse—massage therapist. And enjoying himself more than any date he’d been on in longer than he cared to admit.

  The check finally arrived, bringing him back to reality. Cal looked it over, then stuck his corporate card in the vinyl folder’s little pocket.

  A few minutes later, Brenna came back to the table and sat down. Her forehead wrinkled into an adorable frown of dismay when she realized that he intended to pay for their meal. “Wait, what are you doing? We should split the bill,” she protested.

  “Look, I’m just going to expense it anyway. So it’s not even like it’s me taking you to dinner. It’s on the firm.”

  Her lips flattened. “Fine,” she said, though her tone contradicted the sentiment. Then her brows rose into twin arches. “You didn’t expense the massage, too, did you? With that enormous tip? I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  “It’s not a problem. My boss paid for that. As a thank-you for my work on the case.” His neck heated as he considered how pompous that must sound to her.

  But she simply said, “Ah,” as if one of the world’s great mysteries had been solved.

  Even though he knew he shouldn’t pry, something compelled him to ask anyway. “Ah, what?”

  “Oh.” She met his gaze. “Um, I was just thinking that would explain the size of the tip you gave me. Which I was going to thank you for, by the way, but now I guess I should be thanking your boss instead.”

  A mischievous smile curved her lips, and it threw him off-balance. He had no idea what kind of game she was playing here, but whatever it was, he was in favor of encouraging her flirtation.

  He allowed his voice to grow slightly husky. “You can still thank me, if you want to.”

  She responded in kind, looking up at him through the dark fringe of her lashes. “How would you like me to thank you?”

  He grinned. “Orally is fine,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “What?” She reared back in shock.

  “Someone’s got a dirty mind.” Shaking his head, he leaned toward her. His smile broadened. “I just meant that you could use words.”

  He only caught a glimpse of the color flooding her cheeks before she buried her face in her hands.

  “Oh, God.” She sounded endearingly, miserably muffled. “I think I need to go home now.”

  If the table had been smaller—and if he’d known her better—he would have cupped a reassuring hand under her jaw. But it wasn’t, and he didn’t, so he’d have to use words, too.

  “Hey,” he said. “No need for that. This has been fun.”

  In fact, this meal with Brenna contrasted starkly with the rest of his life, which had been nearly 100 percent devoid of anything other than work for quite some time. Then and there, Cal resolved to change that.

  After he made partner.

  “Haven’t you had a good time?” he asked.

  Her hands fell away and she looked up at him, still adorably pink-cheeked. “Up to the point when I died of mortification, yes.”

  “Look.” He held her gaze. “We can call it a night, if that’s what you want. But I’m happy to grab some coffee, or a drink, if you want to keep going.” And he’d go right along with her, as long and as far as she’d let him. Even though what he should be doing was getting back to work. The closing argument was pretty good, but he still wanted to practice it a few more times before tomorrow morning, on the off chance the plaintiffs rested their case a day earlier than expected.

  Cal was used to late nights and short sleep, though. There was no reason he couldn’t spend more time with Brenna tonight and practice the closing again in the morning. Because he wanted this. He wanted her. She was a vision, straight out of any man’s fantasies. But that wasn’t the entirety of it. There was something intriguing about her, or maybe about the two of them together, that kept needling him, urging him not to simply let these few brief hours fade into memory.

  She shook her head, regret turning her sensual mouth down at the corners. “I really wish I could, but I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

  It was a disappointing response, but he of all people understood the demands of a strong work ethic. “Maybe some other time, then.” Though he couldn’t imagine when that other time might be. He knew he was hard up, but when had he gotten so greedy that a fantastic meal, some intriguing flirtation, and maybe a good-night kiss if he was lucky, weren’t enough?

  When he’d met Brenna, that’s when. God help him.

  He added a tip to the receipt and signed it. Then he helped her into her coat before shrugging on his own.

  As they exited the restaurant, he rested a hand at the small of her back, wishing New England’s spring weather were less capricious. Too many layers of fabric now kept him from sensing the play of Brenna’s muscles as she walked, the warmth of her skin. It occurred to him that she’d had her hands all over his body, but he’d barely touched her. And he had no way of rectifying that imbalance.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked. “Can I walk you somewhere?”

  “Just to the T station.”

  Concerned, he s
poke without thinking. “You’re taking the subway? At this hour?”

  She visibly bristled. “I always do, sometimes even later than this. It’s safe.”

  “I’d feel better if you took a cab. Let me get one for you.”

  “No thanks, I prefer public transit,” she said coolly.

  He could tell he was increasing her agitation, but he didn’t feel right about dropping her off at a subway station and just walking away from her. “Look, if it’s about money, I’m happy to pay for you—”

  “No!” Her protest was loud and forceful. “Look, this wasn’t a date, and I can get home on my own.”

  Her narrow-eyed glare sliced him to ribbons, and her body language told him his chances of a good-night kiss were rapidly dwindling. She’d stiffened, crossing her arms in front of her chest defensively. As much as it irked him, he needed to back off, pronto. If he didn’t, she was going to walk away from him, breaking that fragile but undeniable thread of connection between them.

  Cal gently touched her arm. “Hey. I’m sorry. I overstepped. I’m just used to watching out for my friends, when it’s late. But you know this part of the city better than I do.” His shoulders tightened. “Let me walk you to the T station?”

  She paused for what seemed like eons before rendering judgment. “Okay. That would be nice.” Then the humor gleamed in her eyes once more. “But no funny stuff.”

  He raised three fingers in a salute. “Scout’s honor.” Thank God she’d given him another chance.

  “It’s just a couple of blocks.”

  “Lead the way.” He swept his hand forward with a courtly gesture.

  Their route took them past Newbury Street’s curved and angled brick-fronted facades, each with its own set of brownstone steps. As they walked, he again drew her into a low-key conversation he hoped would defuse the tension that had built during their disagreement. He’d employed that tactic dozens of times in working with nervous witnesses, to build rapport. It seemed to meet with some success with Brenna, too, as she told him about the Indian restaurant that had been the other option she’d offered for their dinner, and he expressed his appreciation that she’d suggested Ciro’s.