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She offered a casual shrug. “Because you’re in the industry yourself.”
“Ah, of course,” I acknowledged. “I must confess, I do have high standards.”
“When I picked this place, I considered that,” she continued. “They’ve received excellent reviews, and I thought you’d appreciate something a bit more upscale.”
“Well.” I chuckled. “I hope you don’t have the wrong impression, Calista. While I enjoy fine dining, I’m equally at home in more humble settings. One of my favorite places is a modest little café tucked away in Barcelona.”
Her laughter rang out, a melodic sound that struck me as the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.
“Fair enough,” she conceded with a nod. “And please, call me Cali.”
“Cali…” I let her name linger on my lips, savoring each syllable’s soft rise and fall. “What should we order from this luxurious establishment?”
Her fingers traced the edge of a leather-bound menu. Shetilted her head. “I was studying the offerings before you arrived. The lamb looks irresistible.”
I flipped the menu open, scanned one page, then closed it with a decisive snap.
“I’ll have that too.” I offered a slow wink.
Her brows shot up. “You didn’t even look at the menu, did you?”
“No,” I admitted. As the sun slipped behind a cloud, the resulting shadow revealed her enchanting dark green eyes, now sparkling with tiny silver flecks. I could have gazed at them for hours.
“I trust you.” I lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.
She leaned forward, a teasing smile tugging at her lips, revealing a single dimple. “I have good taste.”
“Which must be why you invited me tonight,” I replied.
“One hopes,” she shot back, raising her glass in a mock toast.
She swept her hair to one side, as the candlelight illuminated the graceful curve of her neck once more. A warmth unfurled inside me, making my cock grow harder with every second.
I blinked and raised the glass to my lips.
“So,” I said, settling back in my seat, “I hear you’re a formidable fighter, Calista…Cali.”
“I work hard at it,” she said, lifting her chin. “There’s always room for improvement, though.”
“Like perfecting a signature dish,” I offered.
She folded her hands on the table, watching me. “I’ve heard you’re a skilled chef.”
“Sounds like we both did our research. My family business requires me to possess an elevated level of proficiency in the kitchen to succeed. My father made sure I knew everything there was to know.”
She regarded me with careful silence.
“I make a mean lamb moussaka. It’s my great-grandmother’s recipe, inked in her own hand.” I tapped an imaginary page on the table.
She traced a circle on the tablecloth with her fingertip. “You’ll need to prove it.”
“You want proof?” I asked, lifting a brow. “I believe I need to win this competition before I can prove that.”
“It’s hardly a competition,” she remarked, shaking her head.
“Isn’t it?” I countered in mock challenge.
“No, it isn’t,” she insisted. “I’m not exactly parading you around in swimsuits and giving out scores.”