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The hostess gave me a sniff, then buried her nose back in her reservation book.

I waited ten minutes.

Then fifteen.

Doubt crept into me as I shifted uneasily. Did I have the correct date? The correct time? The place? I resisted the urge to tug at my cravat, which seemed tighter than it should. I also resisted the urge to check my watch. That would be tacky.

“Sir, your table is ready. I can seat you if you’d like to get started with wine, then escort your date once she arrives?”

I nodded and stood, my body rigid and tense. Perhaps wine would settle my nerves. I followed her as she weaved a path through the tables, her red ponytail bobbing as she swayed her hips.

She led me to a table next to large glass windows that overlooked the street below. The same vines from the front creeped down along the stones, reaching toward me.

Best view in the house.Too bad even the plants can sense my unease.

“Can I start you with something?” she asked sweetly.

The corner of my mouth twitched. “Just a merlot, please.”

She scurried away, and I settled in, trying to breathe as I closed my eyes.

Only minutes passed before my space was invaded with a flurry of giggles and the overwhelming scent of wildflowers, honey, and aggressively cheap perfume.

Don’t gag. Perhaps she’s trying something new.

My goodwill vanished when I opened my eyes and saw the offender was most definitely not Juniper.

"Hi!" came a voice far too sweet and irreverent. "You must be Pride. I’m Daphne!"

She slid into the seat opposite me without pause, her breasts defying gravity, in a dress so sheer my ears burned. She leaned forward, and a strategically placed vine wrapped around my ankle.

Nymph, I thought.

“I...I think you’re mistaken,” I said stiffly, prying the vine off my ankle with my other foot subtly under the table. Who was this woman? Where was Juniper?

“Nope!” she chirped. “Juniper said you were shy and repressed and needed a little help to get your...sin going.” She winked at me, actually winked!

Sinking realization and horror settled in my stomach, souring it.

I glanced toward the entry.

No Juniper.

Just me. And Daphne. And her overwhelming enthusiasm for touching things—including my arm, my collar, and at one horrifying moment, my knee.

Our waiter appeared with my wine and quickly took her order.

“Champagne, please,” she exhaled, even doingthatsalaciously. Once the waiter disappeared, she leaned in toward me, her voice breathless for no reason at all.

“So,” she purred, trailing a finger along the rim of her wine glass, “do you like nectar shots or body shots better?”

I choked on my wine.

“I beg your pardon?” I squeaked.

She laughed. “Aw, you’re cute when you’re scandalized.”

“I’m not scandalized,” I muttered, dabbing at my mouth with a napkin. “I’m...concerned.” I was a sin,for the sake of the gods, not some prepubescent!