I should warn you in advance—I love dessert. This restaurant better bring it in that department.
When I walk into Sabrina’s Restaurant, I’m early, and that gives me the chance to grab a spot at the bar and watch for Penny to enter. When the gorgeous brunette with the flower tattoos walks through the door a few minutes later, my throat goes dry.
My blood heats, because she’s prettier than I’d thought she was the other day, and I want to catalogue every detail. I rake my gaze over her, from the black heels, to the snug jeans that make her legs look long and sexy, to the bare arms exposed by the strappy silvery tank she wears. Her wrists are covered in slim, metallic bangles, and her lush brown hair is pinned up on one side in a small butterfly clip, showing the delicate ink curving over her shoulder.
I don’t need to discuss menus or events with her.
I asked her out tonight because I haven’t been this drawn to someone I just met in ten years.
I walk over to her, clasp one hand on her shoulder, and dust a kiss on one cheek, then the other. A soft gust of breath escapes her lips, and she shudders.
I do, too.
Chapter Five
Penny
“Wine?”
Gabriel offers me the wine list, and I take it. There’s a part of me that’s dying to say, “Yes, let’s order a bottle like that last night. Remember how we didn’t even finish our glasses because we were dying to be alone? We got the check early and went to your room, and you brought me pleasure the likes of which I haven’t come close to having since. But hey, I didn’t call you The Yardstick for nothing.”
Instead, I swallow my nerves and say, “Any question that starts and ends with wine should be answered with yes.”
He smiles, a ridiculously sexy smile that makes me want both to pump my fist for having nailed a witticism and to lean across the table and kiss that fucking gorgeous grin off his face.
Oh, wait. Let’s add a third option. I’d like to take a full dose of I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude so I can walk out in the middle of dinner and leave him here, flustered and confused, at the ridiculously romantic Spanish restaurant with its exposed brick walls and candles on the table. Except, I know I won’t do that, and it’s not simply because he looks like the cover model for Bon Appétit’s “Chefs I Want to Bang” issue.
He’s so beautiful, it’s criminal. It simply has to be against the law to look the way he does. He has the type of face for billboards, the kind so handsome it should cause traffic pileups from voyeurs staring at his jaw, his lips, his see-inside-my-soul amber eyes. Then he has all that thick, dark hair—he was handsome with short hair, but he’s a god with these longer locks, the kind that my hands beg to touch.
To top it all off, he’s dressed deliciously tonight—sophisticated, but edgy, too. The cuffs on Gabriel’s shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his inked forearms, covered in swirls, lines, and stunning illustrations. Some are new, like the twin tribal bands below his elbow, but the vintage map of the world on his left forearm is so familiar that my chest aches from the memory.
One afternoon, I traced my fingertip over the outline of Europe as we lay on a blanket in Park Güell at the top of Barcelona, surrounded by panoramic views of the city and Gaudi’s architectural masterpieces. The grass was cool and soft beneath us, and the air rich with the scent of earth, fragrant summer flowers, and desire.
“I know this continent like the back of my hand,” I said, since I’d studied European History in college.
“Show me all the lands.” He held out his arm as he challenged me.
My fingers traveled over England, Germany, France, Austria, and Holland, naming each. There were no borders on him. I drew in the countries because I knew them well. I filled in the boundaries of Portugal as it met Spain, where he’d lived for the past few months. When he asked my favorite country, I showed him that, too, by traveling along the outline of a boot. His breath hitched as I traced Italy, and then he said, his voice husky with need, “Kiss me, my Penelope.”
I can hear those words echo across time.
“Do you have a favorite?” he asks, the wine list spread out in front of him at this tiny table.
“Italy,” I murmur, before I realize the word has fallen from my mouth. I blink, startled back to the present, and I raise my face and meet his eyes.
He tilts his head, his expression quizzical.
I try to cover up my slip-of-the-tongue. “Italian wine, I mean. But I guess they don’t have it here, being a Spanish restaurant. I’ll say my favorite is sangria,” I say, then my lips curve into a grin. “Except you can’t order that with a chef.”
His eyes twinkle. “Do you think I’m a wine snob? That I don’t like sangria?”
My lips part to answer, but I stop. The truth is I don’t know. I assumed he would be against it, since sangria is such a punch bowl wine. I go for honesty. “I don’t know. I suppose I thought you’d want something fancy.”
“Just because I cook doesn’t mean I dislike pizza, or sandwiches, or a simple sangria. Do you like sangria is the more important question?”
Right now, I just need something, anything, to quench my thirst. “I love it. And I’d love a Tempranillo, too,” I say, naming a more sophisticated wine, lest he think I’m uneducated about the world he lives in—the finer things in life.
But, oh shit. I just requested two drinks. God, I sound like a lush. Why don’t I ask him to thrust a glass in each of my hands, so I can double-fist and guzzle till I pass out?