by Zoe Chant
When the first course arrived, ferried in by a pair of slender young men in matching silver waistcoats, all Irina could see was the strong curve of Grant’s wrist as he deftly relieved them of the bottle of wine and poured her a glass. When the waiters vanished, all she noticed was how delicately he held his knife and fork. The way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. How his every move seemed at once powerful and intensely controlled.
At one point, he reached out to refill her glass, and the cuff of his shirt pulled back just a little over his wrist…
She watched his lips move, and only after they stopped, realized he had been speaking to her.
“Sorry, I missed that,” she admitted, taking a quick sip of wine to cover the fact that she’d just been ogling her dinner partner instead of paying attention to what he was saying. The white wine burst onto her palate, complex and delicate all at once.
“It wasn’t important,” Grant demurred. There was an undeniably smug look on his face, like he knew exactly what she had been doing. “I was wondering if you enjoyed the scallops.”
He did know exactly what she had been doing. Damn it.
Irina looked down. One lonely, white-fleshed scallop lay on her plate. She couldn’t even remember eating the rest of them.
She couldn’t even remember them arriving. Hadn’t the waiters brought out breads to start with? She had a distinct—well, vague—memory of beautiful crusty, seedy rolls.
“I’m sure they were delicious,” she said honestly. She speared the final scallop with her fork and popped it in her mouth. It was delicious. She wished she had paid more attention to the others.
Irina sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m not a very good dinner companion.”
Grant raised one eyebrow with an apologetic smile. “Whereas I’ve been the perfect host, running my mouth about the wine list and not letting you get a word in edgeways.”
“No, that was good, actually. You did a great job of covering up my utter lack of wine knowledge.” Irina looked at her empty plate and sighed. “Please tell me that wasn’t the last course, though? I didn’t sleepwalk through the entire meal?”
She bit her lip and thought, Sleepwalk. That’s a nice euphemism for “stared at your forearms”. All those months in the mountains must have left me totally desperate if I’m ignoring the best meal I’ve ever had to drool over a guy’s arms.
But his arms were so, so worth drooling over.
Irina shook herself. Stop it! You’re doing it again! She raised her eyes to meet Grant’s and saw him bite back a grin.
“You only—uh—sleepwalked through the first two courses, don’t worry. The best is yet to come.”
“I promise to pay more attention to the next dish,” Irina joked.
“I don’t know about that,” Grant said, swirling the last of the wine in his glass. “I was rather enjoying the attention, myself.”
His green eyes, dark in the low lighting of the courtyard, burned into Irina’s with a warmth that filled her whole body. He ran one finger along the rim of his wineglass, and Irina’s mouth went dry. The tantalizing, slow circles he was making on the glass… what would they feel like on her body?
It was all too easy to remember the soft touch of his fingers on her hand earlier. And to imagine them trailing up her wrist, to the crook of her arm, her shoulders… under her dress…
Grant leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “And I’m still enjoying it.”
“Oh. Well. Um. That’s good, because it doesn’t look like I’m about to stop anytime soon,” Irina admitted and then bit her lip, horrified at what she had said. A delighted smile spread across Grant’s face, and he raised his glass.
“Here’s to that.”
“Cheers,” Irina replied, biting her lip, and clinked her glass against his.
“So,” Grant continued after they had both drunk, “Now that my voice has your attention…” He waited as Irina groaned and covered her face. “I think we should—and this isn’t a euphemism—get to know each other better.” He grinned his cat-like smile.
Irina peeked through her fingers. “And that’s not a euphemism,” she repeated. “All right. I suppose this dinner entitles you to know something about the strange woman you plucked from the jaws of certain doom. What do you want to know?”
“Oh—social security number, date of birth, paternal lineage through ten generations…” He laughed. “How about we start with your surname?”
“Mathers,” Irina replied. “Irina Mathers.” She reached across to shake his hand with mock formality.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Grant drawled. “So, what brings you to the city? I can tell by your accent that you’re not from around here.”
“You got me.” Irina took another sip of wine. “I grew up in—well, pretty much the opposite of New York. This tiny town out in the middle of nowhere, where the tallest building was the water tower. The sort of town that has a water tower.”
The waiters swept discreetly in again, replacing the empty plates with delicately arranged cuts of steak. Irina waited until they had gone, suddenly tongue-tied.
“I guess…” She stopped, not sure how to go on, and found herself staring intently at the triangular patch of skin under Grant’s open collar.
He picked up on her stare and stretched luxuriously so that the fabric of his shirt stretched against his chest. Irina groaned, which only made him look more smug.
“Next time we dine out I’ll wear a mask, so you can enjoy the meal properly,” Grant announced with an air of benevolent self-sacrifice. “And a burlap sack. No, a canvas one. Burlap is so chafing.”
“And canvas isn’t?”
“Canvas is tolerable.”
Irina laughed. Grant wasn’t the first man she’d met who was well aware of how attractive he was, but somehow his method of constantly drawing attention to his good looks was more charming than off-putting. It didn’t hurt that he actually was far better-looking than any of the meatheads whose idea of flirting was to flex their own muscles in front of a mirror.
“All right. Let me try again.” Irina took a deep breath. Try again… and try not to sound like a complete drop-kick loser. In other words, not like yourself. “Like I said, grew up in the middle of nowhere.”
Irina toyed with a morsel of steak, then speared it and popped it into her mouth. Mmm. This is amazing. I so wish I hadn’t missed the first courses! She kept talking, only slightly distracted by the food.
“Where was I? Only child, born in—sorry, fast-forward—I was always interested in painting and art of all sorts, really, and I actually got this scholarship after high school.” Keep it cool. “For a school here, actually. But my Gran got sick during freshman year, so I was back home again before I could blink. Then just…”
She stopped. Then I just yo-yoed back and forth for the next four years. A few months back in the mountains over the tourist season, saving money to come back to the city and—what? Realize, time and time again, that I didn’t fit here, either?
What am I doing with my life?
“I don’t know if you, uh, noticed my paintings…”
She glanced up in time to catch Grant’s shamefaced wince. “Ah. Would it help if I said I was very distracted?”
Irina snorted. “Too busy stealing strange women’s drinks? Anyway, my friend Clare—”
“—She of the texts I wasn’t allowed to see—”
“—Yes, Clare of the terrible text messages. She got me the exhibition. Which was so kind of her, really, especially since…”
She paused and bit her lip. The words, It’s not like I’m a real artist or anything were waiting on her tongue, ready to be said, but she couldn’t make herself spit them out.
All those months of work. All those months away from work: hiking and climbing in the mountains around her grandmother’s cottage. Hunting down the perfect scene, the perfect angle and light, and painting for so long every evening that the fumes made her dizzy. And all for—what? A dream she wasn’t eve
n brave enough to chase?
Everyone knew that no one made a living as an artist these days. Especially not girls from the middle of nowhere who’d dropped out of art school.
Especially not girls who didn’t want to be artists, anyway. Irina had a job, and it was a pretty good one. Better than a lot of people had. Her waitressing paid the bills—well, most of them—and if it all fell through, she always had the cottage to go back to. How many other twenty-somethings could say the same?
Let Francine Delacourt sneer at her work. Irina didn’t need any of it.
“Are you all right?”
Irina realized the smile had slid off her face while she was wrapped in her own thoughts. She pulled herself back together and flashed a grin at Grant. “Sorry. I was a million miles away.”
“Back at your Gran’s house in the mountains?”
Irina’s smile wavered, but she pulled it up again. “My Gran passed away a few years ago, but, yes—back at her old cottage in the mountains. I worked on the paintings there over last summer.”
“Well, here’s to summer in the mountains.” Grant raised his glass, but he was still watching Irina carefully. “Whether that’s Bolivia, Irina’s Gran’s mountains, or wherever it is Mathis ended up.”
Irina raised her glass as well. “To the middle of nowhere in the Adirondacks. And wherever your friend is.”
“Probably punching a tree somewhere, if I know him.” Grant laughed.
Irina relaxed, feeling safely back on solid ground.
“Well, that doesn’t rule out the Adirondacks. Plenty of trees around there. I might have even seen him.”
Her Gran’s cottage was a few miles from the small town of Silverstream, tucked into a remote valley that nevertheless saw lots of visitors over the summer months. Irina racked her brains, trying to recall if she’d seen any tourists who might have harbored tree-assaulting plans.
“Does he look much like his sister? Same amazing hair?”
“He’s tall and blond like her, but that’s it.” Grant shifted in his chair, as if he’d got pins and needles suddenly.
“What about the laser-beam eyes? I would remember seeing anyone with eyes like hers, I think.” She bent her head to her plate and glanced up through her eyelashes at Grant. Yes, he was definitely looking uncomfortable.
He couldn’t be jealous, could he? Of the remote possibility that she had gotten a glimpse of his friend, probably fried red by the sun and grimy with hiking?
The thought sent a thrill prickling down Irina’s spine. She sat up a little straighter. Before she could stop herself, she felt herself lick her lips. Damn her subconscious, giving away what he made her feel.
“Is he into the outdoors? Well, I suppose he must be, if he likes punching trees.” Irina raised one eyebrow at Grant. “And what about you? Did you punch many trees in—Bolivia, did you say?”
“I have more respect for trees than to punch them,” he said gravely, but his eyes were sparkling. He leaned around the table, closing the distance between them, and bent his head to whisper in Irina’s ear. “And I can think of better uses for my hands.”
Irina had automatically leaned in to hear Grant better, and now she found herself frozen in place, her head bent close enough to Grant’s face that she could feel his breath tickle her ear. Her skin broke out in goosebumps, every nerve in her body tingling, ready for more. More than just the touch of his breath.
If she turned her head...
“Do you know what?” Grant started speaking again before she could make a decision either way: stay where she was, or turn around and raise the stakes. His voice was a low rumble that seemed to reverberate in her very bones.
“Hmm?” Irina didn’t trust herself to be able to make words. Was she trembling? Was she trembling so much that he would be able to tell? It wasn’t like they were actually touching—yet...
“If I’m honest… I think you would be enjoying this meal more if you’d already had your fill of me.”
Oh, my God.
Irina didn’t stop to think. She felt as though electricity was dancing across her skin, and that if she looked down, she would see silver sparks leaping to cross the distance between her body and Grant’s. Her lips ached to be touched, and Grant’s face was so close to hers—
Screw it, Irina thought just before she closed the gap.
His lips were soft, a heart-melting contrast to the prickly stubble around them. Irina pressed her own lips against them, gently at first, until she felt Grant’s tongue slip out to tease her lips and realized she couldn’t hold back any longer. She gripped the table with both hands for balance and dove into the kiss, recklessly losing herself in sensation.
Somewhere very far away and very, very unimportant, she heard footsteps approach and beat a hasty retreat.
“Hmm,” murmured Grant against her lips. “I think that was our dessert course.”
Irina tried to catch her breath, but caught another kiss instead. By the time their lips parted again, she was gasping. Her face was stinging where Grant’s stubble had scratched her skin, and her lips felt bruised and red.
She’d never kissed anyone on a first date before. At least, not like that.
She was still leaning too far forward, far enough that her chair was almost tipping over, but somehow her hands had moved from the table to press against Grant’s broad shoulders. She could feel the swell of muscle under her palms and the hard line of his collarbone under one thumb. Grant’s own arm was twined around her waist, holding her up.
The hell with it.
“Dessert?” she repeated, dazed. “If that means dinner’s over… is it time to head home?”
6
GRANT
Is the car still outside? Grant projected wildly in what he assumed was Lance’s general direction, the downstairs area of the restaurant. He’d told the other man to take the evening off, but hadn’t been surprised when he sensed the snow leopard shifter still downstairs. An evening off eating one of Moss’ dinners beat anything else.
Keys, he thought suddenly. Shit. Keys?
You have your own set in your pocket, came Lance’s voice in his head, dryly amused. Do you—
Can’t talk. Got to go.
She was in his arms—beautiful, glorious Irina was in his arms, and he couldn’t waste any more time talking.
Kissing, though. He could waste time kissing.
He wrapped his arms more tightly around her, pulling her onto his lap. The pleased gasp she made as he held her close was almost infuriating. She turned him on so much, and every noise she made only reminded him how much closer he wanted to be to her. His cock was straining against his trousers. Could she feel it? Could she feel how badly he wanted to rip his clothes off and cover her body with his own?
“Your place or mine?” he growled into her mouth.
“Not mine. God no. Yours?” Irina turned pleading eyes to him. No force in the world could have made him refuse her.
Bring her home. His single-minded panther was insistent. And for once, Grant agreed with it.
“Follow me,” he growled and stood up. For one delicious moment he held Irina’s full weight against himself before he lowered her to the ground. He patted his pocket. Keys. Good. He took Irina’s hand, and she gripped it tightly. “My place isn’t far from here. I’ll drive.”
“Wait.” Irina stopped at the top of the stairs. “Is—Lance—he’s not coming with us, is he?”
“He’s off duty,” Grant growled, and the uncertain look on Irina’s face disappeared.
“Good. Because…” She bit her lip on whatever she was about to say next.
“If you say anything involving the words ‘personal assistance’…”
“I would never.” She burst out laughing and then covered her mouth with one hand, as though shocked at herself.
They hurried down the stairs together, Grant acutely aware of how close Irina’s body was to his as they navigated the narrow corridor.
He caught Lance’s eye as they bu
rst out into the main dining area and was shocked by the wave of adrenaline that hit him when he saw the other man looking across at him and his mate.
No, it’s not the man, he realized immediately. It’s his leopard.
Really, there were some things about being a shifter that were just ridiculous. A few moments ago, even the mere thought that Mathis might have crossed paths with Irina had unsettled his panther. And now it was seeing Lance as a competitor, too.
The icy night air hit him like a freight train as they hurried out into the street, and Grant automatically pulled Irina to him, shielding her from the cold wind. She looked up at him, her eyes so warm he almost forgot how cold it was.
“The car’s just around the corner,” he said, resisting the urge to tip her head further back and cover her face with kisses.
“And your apartment?”
“We’ll be there before you know it.”
He spoke too soon. The street had filled up while they were eating, and they soon found themselves in a sea of honking horns, angry shouts and idling engines. Grant started to growl deep in his throat, echoing the car engines…
...But not his car’s engine, which was electric and silent.
He swallowed the growl, but not before Irina noticed it. She glanced sidelong at him, a smile dancing on her lips.
“Frustrated?” she murmured.
“Not at all,” Grant replied with a groan.
“How about now?”
She reached over and slid one hand up his leg, her touch so light he could barely feel it. Grant groaned again, louder this time, and flung his head back against the headrest. Outside, the traffic was still at a crawl.
Irina sighed and settled back in her own seat—but her hand stayed where it was. “Would it be quicker to walk?” she wondered aloud.
Grant scowled out the window. They were only a few blocks away from his apartment building. But…