Every Wrong Reason(59)

I pushed through bodies to find the hostess stand, but Nick caught my attention before I could ask her if he had arrived yet. He sat at the bar in stylish gray jeans and a black sweater that fit him well. His jaw had been trimmed and he’d recently had a haircut. His chestnut hair lay over his forehead just right, a little mussed and perfectly sun-kissed, even though it was the dead of winter.

He was gorgeous.

He was too gorgeous.

The corners of his mouth lifted when our gazes collided and he raised his hand in a small hello. I didn’t smile back. Or wave.

I spent every ounce of energy composing myself before I had to speak to him.

When would it stop being such a lightning strike when I saw him? When would it stop feeling like the earth had come to a screeching halt and I had been pushed forward from momentum and propulsion and impetus and all other scientific terms until he became my entire world? Until he became everything I saw and heard and smelled and breathed?

When would this attraction to him die?

God, I was a mess.

He leaned in when I placed my hands on the high-backed bar chair. “Hey,” he murmured. “Was parking a pain?”

I licked dry lips. “Parking is always a pain down here.”

He shifted nervously and tugged on his damn earlobe. “Do you, uh, want to take a seat? I made a reservation earlier today, but they said it would be a while yet. I can ask them again if you’d rather-”

“This is fine,” I interrupted. This was actually better. Sitting at the bar would feel infinitely less intimate than a table against the wall.

I hung my purse on a hook under the bar and slipped my coat off, hanging it on the back of my chair. After I’d climbed up and situated myself, Nick slid me a drink menu.

“What are you drinking?” I asked him while I studied wines.

“Manhattan.”

I wrinkled my nose and saw him smile in my peripheral vision. “They have a cab franc,” he murmured.

Instantly I perked up. My favorite.

I told that to the bartender who deadpanned, “We only sell that one in the bottle.”

“Oh.” My eyes fell back to the menu, perusing it for something different.

“We’ll take the bottle,” Nick announced.

The bartender immediately gave us his back and I swung my head to face my ex-husband.

Soon to be ex-husband.

“Are you trying to get me drunk? Do you think that I’ll be easier to deal with after I’m three sheets to the wind?”

He chuckled lightly, “I know you won’t be easier to deal with. I’ve seen you drunk.” I glared at him because I didn’t want to laugh. Seeing that he wasn’t going to get a reaction out of me, he explained, “It’s your favorite. Besides, they can cork it for you at the end of dinner and you can take it home with you. It’s not a big deal.”

Buying the wife you were separated from a bottle of her favorite wine just because it was her favorite wine was, in fact, a very big deal. But I decided not to point that out.

Instead, I nodded once and said, “Thank you.”

He leaned in and I caught the tantalizing scent of his cologne and skin. “You’re welcome.”

The bartender reappeared with my wine. It took him a few minutes to uncork it in front of us and go through the tedious process of letting me taste it before pouring my full glass.

As if I was going to turn it down.

Clearly, he did not know me.

After he finally disappeared again, I examined the food menu.

“You can’t stare at your menu the entire night,” Nick teased. “This isn’t just a free meal. You have to work for your dinner.”

He was being nice to me and I had no idea what to do with it. Was he just trying to soften me up so he could get what he wanted? Or was he being genuine?

I set my menu down. “I didn’t think it was a free meal.”

“I was just teasing you, Kate.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know what you want?” His tone was less playful.

I hated that I’d chased it away. “I think so.”

“Me too.”

“Okay, good.”

He fidgeted with the corners of his menu for a minute and I suddenly had a hard time swallowing. I could feel him building up to something, feel the energy inside him expand and contract until it pushed at mine… until it invaded every ounce of my space, every inch of my body.

The bartender came back before either of us could speak again and we put in our food order. He had a ridiculous amount of questions for us and by the time he turned around again I had decided that I should voice a formal complaint.

Except he wasn’t doing anything more than what he was supposed to. My nerves had put me obnoxiously on edge. I took a shaky sip of my wine and savored the flavor, hoping to find center.

Hoping to find solid ground.

“I’m sorry for what happened during mediation. I didn’t… I didn’t expect you to take it so hard.”

I stared at him, unable to form words for a full minute. Finally, I whispered, “Which part?”

“You have to know that if we had a baby… if you became pregnant, that I would do everything in my power to give that child the very best life.”

“I’m not pregnant,” I told him quickly. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”