Rooted (Pagano Family #3)(6)

She’d also drunk more quickly than she would have under the conditions of her original plan. Carmen wasn’t usually much of a drinker. She didn’t even keep booze in her house at home. When she wanted something, she went out. So she was drunk. Not sloppy drunk, but boy-you-know-this-guy-really-is-hot drunk. Damn.

Theo was drinking hard liquor, straight, which Marc had kept fresh while they talked. Bourbon, she thought; it had a dark, reddish tinge. She thought that was bourbon. And he was eating a bloody steak. Or he had been; he’d clearly been well into his meal when he’d come to her table, and he’d been eating as they’d talked, so there was little left on his plate now.

Her meal was still only half-eaten. She took a couple of bites now and washed it down with the rest of the wine. Whoo. Okay. She should go. Absolutely. She belched quietly and covered it by clearing her throat.

When she turned her eyes to Theo, though, he was smiling at her over his glass. “Are you okay?”

No, actually. This night had upended at some point, she knew not where. “I think it’s time for me to go. Thank you for…taking my dinner hostage.”

She grabbed her bag and stood. As she hooked the bag across her chest, the room tipped slightly. And oh—she needed to pay. She fumbled for some bills.

Theo raised his hand. “No, let me. It’s the least I can do, since I took your dinner hostage—and you helped me keep my promise.”

She shook her head and kept trying to work out how much to leave. Euros were hard; they took too much math and had too many important coins. Finally, she gave up. “Thank you. That’d be great.”

He gave her another dimpled grin and, pulling his wallet from the front pocket of his jeans, gestured to Marc. He’d bared just a little bit of belly as he’d moved his un-tucked shirt out of the way of his pocket. Firm belly. Little happy trail of golden hair. Ooookay.

Carmen used that opportunity to make her escape.

When she got to the sidewalk, she stopped and let the cool evening air clear her head somewhat. It was full dark, which meant it was getting late—after ten, at least. She took another couple of deep breaths. Feeling again like she had her feet under her, she turned toward the flat.

“Wait! Um, beautiful girl?”

Oh no, he didn’t. Seriously? She turned and saw Theodore Wilde, winner of the National Book Award and purveyor of ridiculous come-ons, walking toward her with long strides.

He was smiling. As he reached her, he said, “You never told me your name.”

“Nope. Good night.” He was hot, and possibly slightly charming, but no. Trouble.

“How are you getting home? You’re not driving, I hope?”

“I’m just right down the block. I’m all set. Good night.”

As she turned away, he caught her hand. “May I walk with you?”

His hand really was nice, and she suddenly wasn’t in all that big a hurry to take hers away. “I’m not that drunk, you know. Capable of crossing the street on my own.”

“Yes, you are that drunk. And crossing the street? I’m definitely walking with you.” He kept hold of her hand, and she let him.

When she stopped in front of Izzie’s building, he squeezed his hand around hers and pulled her to face him. “Hey—you said you read Orchids. What did you think?”

She had to look up a bit to see into his eyes. Carmen was five-ten. A lot of times, she looked guys straight on—or downward—but Theo had a few inches on her. Maybe three or four. It was nice to look up to a man she wasn’t related to. “I thought it was beautifully written. But it’s a little crass to profit off somebody’s death like that, if you ask me. Which you just did.”

He blinked in surprise. It occurred to her that he’d written powerfully about his own grief, and she felt a flutter of guilt for her directness. “Sorry if that’s harsh. I know that was your real life.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I wrote it four years ago. The feelings in it are still there, but they aren’t fresh.” Then his grin spread wide, deepening his dimples unfairly. She really liked dimples—the long ones that framed a smile. Like Theo’s. Damn. “You know, people have written similar critiques, but no one’s ever had the balls to say it to my face before. I don’t agree, by the way. Maybe someday we’ll hash that out.” He got an impish glint in his eyes, which looked violet in the glow from the streetlights. “Beautifully written, huh?”

She rolled her eyes. Like he didn’t know it was awesome. “Okay. Well. Nice to meet you, monsieur auteur.” Now she did try to free her hand from his, but he held on and pulled, bringing her chest to meet his. With his free hand, he cupped her face. For a second or two, he simply looked into her eyes, and she knew he was giving her a chance to back away.

Fuck it. He was hot. She was drunk. It was just a kiss. Plus—kind of a celebrity encounter, for book geeks, at least. She smiled, and his mouth came down and lightly, not intrusively, moved over hers like silk. Then his tongue slid between her lips. He was much better at this kind of French. Carmen’s chest got that ache—familiar, but maybe not as common as she’d like—that spoke of the way interest and arousal had quickened her heart and enlivened her body. She hooked her free hand in the crook of his elbow and let herself lean on his chest, just a little.

Summer fling. Maybe. How bored could she get with a guaranteed end in three months?