Making Over Maris

by Sabrina York

  Fuck, why hadn’t he gone tanning? Hell, gone outside. Like once? This was fucking Southern California.

  Sara cleared her throat as they approached his car, nudging him out of his dark place, but not far. He popped the trunk and stowed his new purchases inside. Five hundred bucks worth. As though they would make any difference now.

  “Jack?”

  He stilled, dredging up the courage to meet her eyes. He didn’t want to see what he knew he would find on her face. Revulsion.

  He’d seen it before. It was—

  “Jack?”

  He grunted, rearranging things in his trunk though they didn’t need rearranging.

  “Jack!”

  Shit. He was going to have to look at her. He braced himself and did it.

  And blinked in surprise.

  Not revulsion.

  It was something else. But he couldn’t quite tell what it was. Their gazes tangled in an odd way. She glanced away.

  “What, Sara?”

  “Jack, I think you’re ready.”

  “Ready? Ready for what?”

  Her tongue peeped out. He fixated on that flash of pink. She nibbled on her lips as though that would stop her small smile. God. He loved it when she smiled.

  Also, he wanted to nibble on her lips.

  “You’re ready for tonight, Jack.”

  Her words, or something in her tone, sent a lash of lust through him. But it didn’t take much from her to have him thinking about sex. He needed to rein that shit in. Because if he let himself think about it he would do something about it. And if he was only imagining that tone in her voice and he grabbed her and kissed her and mauled her the way he wanted to—while she was simply thinking about doing his laundry or alphabetizing his spices or eating a cheesecake—that could be bad.

  Best proceed with caution.

  “W-what’s tonight?”

  She fiddled with the strap of her purse. Cleared her throat.

  “Sara. What’s tonight?” Please don’t say laundry night.

  “Tonight we’re going on a fake date.”

  His first reaction was absolute fucking elation. Not laundry night.

  She wanted to go on a date.

  A date!

  And then… A fake date? His gut lurched. Crap. “Okay.”

  “I want you to dress in the black jeans and, um, that sweater.”

  Was he hallucinating or was a flush creeping up her cheeks? “Okay.”

  “Pick me up at six.” She fiddled with the strap of her handbag again. She was obsessed with that strap. He knew it meant something. That and the fact she wouldn’t meet his eyes. And the throat-clearing thing. The book she’d given him on nonverbal clues had mentioned—what the hell was it? He’d have to go home and reread that chapter—

  “Jack!”

  “What?”

  “Are you paying attention?”

  “Yes.” He was. He was paying attention to everything.

  “Pick me up at six.”

  “Okay. I’ll pick you up at six. Where are we going?”

  Her tentative gaze became a glare. “You’re the man. You pick. You pick a nice restaurant.”

  A flare of panic danced down his spine. Pick a restaurant? He didn’t know any nice restaurants. He knew a lot of pizza joints. Where you ordered your pizza and took it home to cook. Probably not what she was thinking. “W-what do you like?”

  “What?” The flush on her cheeks deepened. He could only imagine the thoughts running through her head. Then again, he couldn’t. He had no idea what kinds of thoughts would put an expression like that on her face.

  But God, he wanted to know.

  “To eat. What do you like to eat?”

  “Oh.” She shrugged. “Chinese? Italian?”

  “Okay.” Chinese or Italian? Crap. He never ate Chinese or Italian out. The only restaurants he knew were the ones that brought you your food in little white boxes. He was going to have to call Tristan and ask him for help. But he couldn’t let Sara know he was totally befuddled by this task. No. He had to keep up appearances. He cleared his throat in what he hoped was a manly manner and nodded. “Okay. I’ll pick you up at six then.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  They stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Then she nodded and headed for her car.

  Jack wasn’t sure why but an irrepressible grin tugged at his lips. Sure it was only a fake date but he had a dinner date with Sara. In a real restaurant. How many times had he fantasized about that very thing?

  All of a sudden this was getting good. Very good indeed.

  Chapter Five

  It took him a while to prepare for their date—reviewing his notes on nonverbal communication and emotional intelligence…and applying the “product” Kriss had insisted upon—but in the end, Jack was still ready way too early.

  Tristan had offered a litany of restaurant ideas but they had finally settled on a nice, elegant Italian bistro off Vanowen. Jack stopped by to check it out. It passed his review, meeting every mark on his Romantic Restaurant Checklist.

  Dim lighting.

  Linen tablecloths.

  Real silverware.

  He was at her place by five-thirty and sat in his car scanning his First Date crib notes while he waited for his watch to tick around to the appointed hour. He tried not to be restless but a tight ball had formed in his gut and it surged whenever he thought about what was going to happen tonight.

  As he usually did to deal with stress, he processed it, sketching out a flowchart for A Date With Sara on the back of an envelope. He’d certainly played through the scenario plenty of times in his head but he stalled when he got to Step Seven: Take Sara Home.

  Should he kiss her? Or not?

  It was a fake date.

  Did that call for a fake kiss?

  He made a face. He didn’t want a fake kiss—

  The alarm on his watch beeped and his pulse kicked into high gear.

  It was time.

  He folded the envelope, tucked it into the ashtray, grabbed the bouquet of flowers from the passenger seat and levered himself out of his car. He rang her bell at 6:00 p.m. and zero seconds.

  Then he stood on her porch, waiting for her to answer the door, shifting from one foot to the other, trying not to be nervous. Trying not to feel like some kind of fraud. He’d spent a long time this afternoon studying his reflection in the mirror, trying to get a grip on his new look. It was so different from what he was used to, it almost scared him.

  But he reminded himself why he was doing this and his uneasiness faded.

  This was for Sara. He’d been more than a little in love with her for years. And according to the nonverbal communication handbook, she might actually be attracted to him. A bit.

  She had leaned toward him when she talked to him. There had been a hint of a flush on her cheeks. And those sooty lashes had fluttered. And yes, she had licked her lips while talking to him. All the evidence showed that might be a hint of attraction. A nano-crush.

  Finally, finally, he might actually have a chance with her. But he’d have to take it easy. Take it slow. He knew instinctively—and from reading all those romance novels—if he put it all out there right away he’d scare her off. He didn’t want to be the slimy dude in the story who had the hots for the heroine but creeped her out. He wanted to be the hero dude. It was a pity he wasn’t a Navy SEAL. Or an earl. They always did well in romance novels.

  But he could do this. He just needed to be distant and standoffish—but not cold—and let her draw him in.

  That was, assuming she was attracted. At all.

  According to the data, she’d been somewhat attracted this afternoon but that could have been a result of her surprise at his transformation.

  God knows it had surprised him.

  He heard her approach the door and he stiffened, sucking in his gut and throwing back his shoulders. The door opened…and there she was.

  She was so pretty it scrambled his bra
in. She’d done up her hair and put on makeup and everything. Sparkly studs winked in her earlobes. She wore a slinky blue dress with a flirty skirt and strappy sandals. Her legs were bare. His gaze stalled for a second on her perfectly pedicured toes.

  “Jack,” she said breathlessly. She was breathless, wasn’t she? Surely she was. “You’re right on time.”

  “Here.” He thrust the bouquet at her.

  Her hand drifted to her chest. He tracked its movement. “For me?”

  He shrugged. “Tristan said I should bring some.”

  Her face froze. “Tristan? You told him?”

  “I told him I had a date.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t tell him with whom.” Or that it was a fake date. Damn, but that rankled.

  “Oh. Okay.” She opened the door wider. “Come on in. I’ll put these in water.”

  He followed her slowly. He’d been here before—this was where they always had movie night—but he’d never studied her place, not the way the Demystifying Women website suggested.

  It was a small condo, and neat. According to the website, neatness was a sign of a woman who appreciated order. The art on the walls was funky and reflected her sense of humor. He stepped up to a series of photographs in the hall and studied them as she puttered in the kitchen, hunting for a vase. He was surprised to notice the photos weren’t portraits—he’d been expecting a gallery of family and friends. Old boyfriends perhaps.

  She had a lot of those. Enough to fill a gallery.

  But these were all landscapes, all black-and-white, all exquisite. Amazing that he’d never noticed them before. But then he’d missed a lot. Before.

  He turned as she came back into the room. “These are nice.”

  “Thanks. I took them.”

  He blinked. “You…took these?” He turned back and examined them again. Damn. The girl had game. “You should be a photographer.”

  She laughed. “I am.”

  Yeah. She’d always had a camera around her neck in school. “I mean a professional.”

  She set the vase on the coffee table. “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. This one’s…phenomenal.” It was a long, narrow shot down a snow-covered forest. Haunting, beautiful. Like her.

  She stepped closer to study the photo and her perfume teased at his sanity. “Oh, yeah. I took that one in Vermont.”

  “Gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. Are you ready to go?”

  No. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay. “Sure. I hope you like Italian.”

  She grinned and grabbed her shawl. “Love it.”

  They didn’t talk much on their way to the restaurant. Jack was focused on her legs. When she sat in the bucket seat of his BMW M6, her legs tipped up and the dress slipped down. Only a tad. He swallowed heavily. When she crossed her legs, it exposed more of her silky thigh.

  If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was trying to seduce him.

  But he knew better.

  When he parked in the restaurant’s lot and switched off the engine, she put her hand on his arm. “Now listen, Jack. This date is a training session.”

  His heart plummeted. “Okay.”

  “You’ve done great so far. The flowers were awesome. And I appreciate that you were on time. But now we have to get serious. Work on the nitty-gritty.”

  The nitty-gritty? “Okay.”

  “So I’m going to give you hints throughout the night, you know, what a guy should do to attract a woman and all that. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Crap.

  Crap crap crap.

  She wasn’t thinking about him any differently than she had before. As far as she was concerned, he was a big, dumb, social moron who needed coaching on every point. Well fuck.

  “First of all, you need to open my door.”

  He kept himself from snarling but just barely. That was what he’d been about to do when she’d stopped him.

  “Okay.” He got out of the car and walked around to open her door. Without prompting, he thrust out a hand. She smiled up at him. He didn’t notice. His attention was snared by something else. Her skirt had ridden up. He could almost see her—

  “Good.” She slipped her hand in his and stood. Her fingers were delicate. Warm. He wondered what they’d feel like on his—

  He brutally cut off the thought. No sex tonight, he reminded himself. No sex for a long, long time. If he was ever going to have her, really have her, he had to take things very slow. He had to soften her, seduce her. Make her want him first. The romance novels said so. The analysis he’d done of them was fairly conclusive.

  As they walked into the restaurant arm in arm, she chattered, giving him advice and tidbits like, don’t be too forceful or overbearing. Don’t stare at the waitresses’ asses. Try not to fart…

  He tuned her out and focused on how amazing it was to have her on his arm. Every once in a while she would brush up against him and a shiver skated through him. He glanced down at her beautiful face. He couldn’t believe she was here. With him. On a date.

  A fake date but still…

  Maybe if he tried, very hard, he could turn this into a real date.

  The restaurant was dimly lit and romantic. The maître d’ greeted them at the door. When he recognized Jack—from his visit earlier this afternoon—his eyes widened and he gave a bow. “This way, Mr. Maris,” he murmured and led them to a table by the fireplace.

  Wow.

  Apparently a hundred-dollar tip did produce better service.

  Jack held Sara’s chair as she sat but he practically had to elbow the maître d’ out of the way for the privilege. He did allow that man to take her napkin, flick it out and lay it across her lap, but he had to grit his teeth the entire time.

  “This is nice, Jack,” Sara said, readjusting her napkin.

  He pulled out his own chair and sat. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “What are you going to order?” She looked over at him, her eyes warm and soft. God, he wished this were a real date.

  He shrugged. “Do you want me to order for you? I mean, do guys do that?”

  She blinked. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d like someone ordering for me.”

  “Tristan recommended the osso buco.”

  Sara wrinkled her nose. “What is that, exactly?”

  Jack laughed. “Not sure.”

  She slapped her menu closed. “If Tristan recommended it, I suppose we should try it.”

  “And wine?”

  “What?”

  “Do you want wine?”

  Her lashes fluttered. “I shouldn’t. I’m working…”

  “Working?” God. That word stuck in his throat.

  “Sure. Tutoring you.”

  “One glass?”

  She pressed her lips together as she thought about it. “Okay. One glass.”

  She ended up having three. Since Jack kept nursing his first glass—very cognizant that he was driving home—she probably drank most of the bottle.

  Whatever. By the time their plates were empty—nearly licked clean as the osso buco turned out to be delicious veal in a wine broth with gremolata and perfect risotto—she was getting somewhat mischievous.

  Jack had known Sara forever. He knew she was a playful minx. But he’d never had it turned on him. Full force.

  She’d never flirted with him.

  Not even fake flirted with him.

  Oh, he knew it was fake but he still liked it. Hell, he loved it. She’d been on so many dates, with so many other men. That should have soured his mood but it didn’t. Because she was here now. With him.

  The way she would glance at him and then glance away, then run a finger around the lip of her wineglass made him crazy. And he was sure she didn’t realize it but her foot kept brushing against his under the table.

  Each time that happened, his cock ticked up another notch on the Mohs scale.

  She gazed at him across the table, her attention flitting from his shoulders to his neck to his mouth. He w
as certain his rising warmth had little to do with the wine.

  And with that rising tide, the devil within him emerged.

  If she was going to fake flirt with him, he was going to fucking fake flirt right back.

  She leaned forward. “Jack?”

  He leaned forward as well. “Yes, Sara?”

  “You are doing very well on this date.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But you need to be more…aggressive.”

  He swallowed. “A-aggressive?”

  “Yes. More aggressive.”

  “I thought aggressive was bad.”

  “Not always.” She took a sip of her wine. “For example, whenever my foot accidently touches yours under the table, you move away.”

  Holy crap. That had been on purpose. The little hairs on his neck stood on end. “Um. Yeah?”

  “What if it wasn’t an accident? What if I’ve been touching your foot on purpose?”

  He nearly jumped out of his skin as her foot brushed his calf. “I-is t-that what you’ve been doing?”

  She fingered the pattern in the tablecloth. “Maybe. There’s only one way to find out.” A howling heat lashed through him as she peeked up at him. The look in her eyes was…astounding.

  “H-how?”

  Her slender, swanlike neck undulated. Then she whispered, “Touch me back.”

  God. Oh God.

  He nearly dropped his fork when her foot rubbed up against his again. Then made its way past the cuff of his pants. She’d removed her shoes.

  Her face fell when he pulled away but then he toed off his shoes—thank God he was wearing loafers—and found her foot again. Stroked it.

  She shuddered. Nearly spilled her wine.

  “Like this?” He could only manage a whisper. And even then his voice was guttural, harsh.

  “Yes. Like that.”

  He let his toe traverse the length of her foot, imagining it was his tongue, his lips. God, how he wanted to suck her toes. Then he let his foot climb higher, up her calf and then, when he thought he’d gone too far, down again.

  She sighed. Their gazes tangled. He stroked her again. He longed to go up farther, to her knees, to her thighs, between them maybe, but he didn’t dare.

  This was enough. Wasn’t it? Enough for now anyway. He reminded himself that he had to take it slow. Be patient.