Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(45)

Him.

He called on Friday, and in the background I heard chatter. He said he was in a meeting with several other people who do what he does. I finally pried out of him that the gathering was for the top earners of the company, but when I congratulated him, he shrugged it off.

“Not a big deal,” he said.

But it was a big deal. A bigger deal than he makes it.

He’s incredible. And due home today.

The door opens and I click off my phone as I call, “Welcome to McGreevy’s,” but when I turn to greet the newcomer, I’m floored by a rumpled, sexy, suited man wearing a tired smile.

“Davis!” I run from behind the bar and give in to the urge and leap into his arms. He catches me, holding me as I kiss his sleepy face. “You liar!”

He grins.

He told me his flight was a red-eye and not to expect him until very late tonight or early tomorrow morning.

“Wanted to surprise you,” he says. “Sorry if I smell like bourbon.”

I’m still holding onto him and bury my nose in his collar. He smells like sun and cologne and Davis. The best scent of all.

“You are cruel. I have to work all day and here you are.” I pout and straighten his crooked tie.

“Don’t worry, Gracie Lou, I’ll be sleeping most of the day. You won’t miss much.”

I’ll still miss him. Even sleeping.

He kisses me, minty fresh from either brushing his teeth on the plane or eating a handful of Altoids. I don’t care. He tastes amazing.

“Can I get you anything at all?” I ask. “Lunch?”

He shakes his head. “You’re the only reason I came here.”

My heart squeezes.

“Maybe after I’m done—”

“Come over,” he finishes for me. “I’ll make you dinner.”

“I can’t ask you to make dinner.”

“You didn’t.”

“Eight thirty too late?” I’m smiling like an idiot.

“Eight thirty is perfect.” Another kiss for me and Davis steps aside to allow three patrons inside.

“Shit,” I whisper.

“It’s okay, Gracie.” Davis gives me a wink.

I invite my new customers to have a seat wherever they’d like and Davis turns to leave.

I hope the rest of this day goes faster than the six days that preceded it.

—

After the quickest wardrobe change in history, I hustle over to Davis’s house. I’ve shelved my mini anxiety issue about hurtling toward matrimony since my day spent with Rox.

Probably because she’s snapped back to her normal self and is again super excited about getting married to Mark.

Cold feet is a real thing. Who knew?

At Davis’s place, I step from my car and force an air of cool and calm. No sense in behaving like a squealing teenager when we’re both adults. No need to draw a red glitter heart around every minute we spend together.

Speaking of hearts, mine betrays me, rat-a-tat-tating against my ribs as I knock on the door. I hear music and a muffled “Come in!” and assume Davis has his hands full at the stove.

I half-expect to be hit with a wall of fragrance—roast duck? the rich scent of tomatoes and garlic bubbling away in a homemade lasagna?

Instead I smell…nothing.

Nothing at all.

Davis arrives in the living room at the same time I crest the top step. He’s dressed in jeans and a black button-down shirt. His shoes are black leather. He looks…Damn.

Delicious.

At the look of confusion on my face, he offers an explanation.

“I changed my mind about the dinner thing. We’re going out. There’s a concert tonight at Bicentennial Park.”

“Um…” I glance down at my little black dress and heels. “I’m not dressed for a concert.”

“Are you kidding me?” He pulls me close, an arm lashed around my back, and lowers his lips to mine. My poor heart can’t beat any faster, so she settles on beating harder, each pound leaving me a bit more breathless. “Tell me you can’t dance in those shoes, Gracie Lou.”

“I can dance in these shoes,” I answer with a smile.

—

Bicentennial Park’s outdoor pavilion is packed when we arrive downtown at the Scioto Mile. The band has a folksy, rockabilly beat I can totally get into. The fountains, normally shooting high into the air and accompanied by fog machines and colored lights, are silent, the chilly fall weather not ideal for spraying water.

“Oh, man,” Davis says as we survey the tightly packed crowd. “I don’t see anywhere to smash in. Guess we’ll have to check in for our reservations.”

His sly smile is a look I’m growing used to.

He takes my hand and leads us to a glass-enclosed restaurant with a covered dining terrace and a drool-worthy panoramic view of the Scioto Mile, the fountain, and the downtown skyline.

“Ever been to Milestone before?” He asks, referring to Milestone 299, a restaurant I’ve long wanted to experience.

“Not yet,” I answer.

“Now’s your chance.”

Inside, the decor is regal. Napkins stand on end like the skyscrapers in the city, and formal silverware arrangements flank elegant white plates on top of smooth teak tables and rigid high-backed chairs.