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Chapter Six

A urora

“Enjoy,” Sean says before departing from our table.

Our appetizers sit beautifully before us. Each dish is more elegant than the previous one, starting with colorful charcuterie and ending with a spectacular elevated oyster display. It’s fancier than anything I’ve eaten, and my stomach tenses in fear that I won’t like it, and it’ll go to waste.

“What do you think?” Tate asks, watching me. “Do you think I ordered enough?”

I grin, shaking my head. “I don’t know. Maybe you could’ve ordered two more appetizers, and we could’ve fed a small country.”

He laughs. The sound envelops me with its smooth warmth.

“No, seriously, this is beautiful,” I say, surveying the spread again. “But it is a lot of food. We could’ve gotten away with just one of these.”

“What kind of date would that have been?”

I fight a grin at his choice of words. “This isn’t a date.”

“It isn’t?” He bites his lip to keep from smiling. “What is it, then?”

“Two random people who met on a plane and happened to run into each other again.”

“Is that what you’re telling yourself?”

I nod, holding his gaze. “I am.”

“We’ll see.” He pulls his attention to the plates before us. “This does look good.”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Always start with oysters.” He lifts one from the bed of salt. “You’ve never had one before?”

“No.”

He smiles as if this makes him happy. “Let me introduce you to the world of oysters. You usually eat them with a little lemon or mignonette sauce, but oysters Rockefeller already have a topping on them. You can add a little lemon, but I usually don’t.”

“What’s in the topping?” I ask, peering at the shell in his hand.

“Honestly? I have no fucking idea.”

I giggle as he picks up a spoon.

“You can either scoop out the meat and sauce and eat it with a spoon or slip it straight into your mouth.” He slides a spoon along the shell. “But either way, you have to loosen the oyster first.”

I nod, watching him guide me through the process.

He’s deliberate, not rushed or shaky. It’s as if he has all the time in the world to sit with me and teach me about shellfish.

His hands are huge compared to the tiny utensil, and his adeptness at handling the oyster makes me wonder what other things he can manipulate as effortlessly.

My thoughts instantly switch to his fingers grabbing my thighs and pulling them apart, his face nestled between them, and his tongue licking me instead of his lips.

Who knew watching this could be foreplay?

“Now you eat it,” he says, holding my gaze.

A quick breath flows between my lips as my heart pounds, and his eyes darken.

He brings the shell to his lips and tips it up, sliding the meat into his mouth. His eyes never leave mine. He chews slowly, watching my reaction, before swallowing.

Fuck.

“Want to try one?” he asks, returning the empty shell to the salt bed.

“Absolutely.”

He reaches for a new oyster and loosens the insides. “You don’t want to swallow right away.”

“Says every man I’ve ever met.”

He laughs. “If you chew a few times, it’ll help you savor the flavor.” He leans toward me, holding the shell across the tabletop. “Come here.”

I hitch a breath as chills race across my skin. He’s going to feed me?

The candlelight casts shadows across Tate’s face, making him look even sexier. But now, with his proximity and attention squarely on me, his attractiveness is potent.

There are no distractions and no secondary storylines. His phone is out of sight. He hasn’t looked at his watch once. He’s here with me in every way, and that’s intoxicating.

I part my lips as his eyes blaze. My mouth waters, but it’s not for the food.

Tate slides the oyster onto my tongue.

The hit of flavors and textures is powerful and unexpected, as is the warmth of the dish.

A rich, creamy sauce mixes with a soft brininess, adding layers of flavor to the buttery topping.

But the biggest sensation, the one that steals my breath, comes from Tate’s fingers brushing across my bottom lip.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his eyes glued to my mouth as I chew.

Other diners and staff surround us, but they all fade into the background.

The moment is wildly intimate. I’m stripped of everything—my clothes, walls, and excuses.

And instead of being uncomfortable, self-conscious, or overthinking like usual, I feel powerful.

Tate is reacting like this to me. Wow.

“How did it taste?” he asks, a smirk playing against his lips.

“Warmer than I anticipated and not as salty.”

He sits back, amused.

I laugh. “It was good. Very interesting flavor, but I like it.”

“Did you know that the flavor of oysters is predetermined by where it’s harvested?” he asks.

“No. How do you know that?”

“One of my brothers worked in Australia for a while. I visited him, and we learned a lot of things late one night at an oyster bar.”

“Did any of those things require an antibiotic?”

He laughs, his eyes twinkling. “Fortunately, no.”

“Excellent. So aside from sketchy interactions with shellfish, what else do you do for fun?”

Tate places some carpaccio on his plate. I take a few options from the charcuterie instead.

“What do I do for fun?” he asks, repeating my question.

“Honestly, when I’m not working, I like to be home.

Most of my friends are married or getting married, so I’m kind of the lone ranger of the group.

” He takes a bite of his food. “I’m learning to be the fun uncle instead of the fun friend. It’s a process.”

I spread some honey on a piece of cheese. “I like being at home, too. I love decorating, so I start at one end of my house and work through each room. Once I’m done, I return to the beginning and do it all over again. It can be an expensive hobby.”

“I’m terrible at decorating. I just put out a bunch of candles and call it quits.”

My eyes narrow suspiciously. There’s no way this guy has a closet full of candles, but I’ll give him credit for, once again, listening to what I said on the plane and using it to his advantage.

“What about you?” he asks, shifting in his chair. One sleeve pulls back just enough for me to glimpse his thick forearm. “What else do you do for fun?”

You, preferably.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, picking up a berry. “I like to cook, I guess. Nothing fancy. I’ll see a dish on television, grab the ingredients, and see if I can recreate it—usually with substitutions that ruin it.”

He smiles. “My girl Mimi likes to cook.”

Mimi? I nod as if a streak of jealousy didn’t just rip through me.

“Mimi is my brother’s wife’s grandmother,” he says, winking.

I chuckle, knowing damn good and well that he just noticed my reaction. Again. I wish that hadn’t happened, but it’s too late now.

Sean appears again with our entrées. I side-eye the appetizers that we’ve barely touched.

“You’re on it tonight, Sean,” Tate says as his steak is placed before him. “This looks great.”

“The kitchen is on it tonight,” Sean says, setting my chicken before me. “I’m just the deliveryman.”

“Well, you’re an excellent one,” I say. “This looks amazing. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. Can I get you anything else?”

Tate looks at me for approval.

“I’m good,” I say. “Tate?”

He smiles and turns to Sean. “Thank you. I think we have everything we need.”

“Perfect. I’ll swing back by in a few and check in with you. Enjoy.”

I sit back and study Tate as he takes a drink. He’s such a peculiar man. Attractive, of course, but also equally kind. His manners and genuine respect for Sean, as well as for me, are surprising.

I have so many questions. I can’t help but wonder how old he is and what he does for work. He seems to have access to a lot of money and carries himself with a certain confidence that piques my curiosity.

But those questions aren’t getting answered, namely because I’m not going to ask. I’m going to keep this light and not dig in too deep. I’m going home tomorrow and leaving him and whatever transpires between us behind.

This is getting me back into the game, not the game itself.

“So this Mimi,” I say, slicing into my chicken. “Tell me about her.”

“She’s the coolest grandma of all time.”

“Sounds like you two have a thing.”

“Oh, we do.” He lifts a piece of steak to his mouth. “And I’m afraid of what that thing would look like if our age gap wasn’t a solid fifty years.”

I laugh. “Does Mimi have a thing for you?”

“I’ll put it to you like this—I see her almost every Wednesday for our date night.

That usually consists of dinner that I pick up somewhere and a cookie or cake she makes for me.

Then we get into her golf cart, and I drive her, usually shirtless, around the neighborhood so she can make the old man at the end of the street jealous. ”

My giggles are instantaneous. “You’re serious?”

“You’ve never tasted her lemon meringue pie.” He smiles from ear to ear. “She’s really … I wouldn’t say sweet because she can be hell on wheels, but we love her. Two of my other brothers and I have adopted her as our pseudo-grandma. She likes me best, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“I’m going to pretend that I didn’t hear the sarcasm in your voice.”

“You do that.”

We exchange a look that sucks any remaining nervousness out of me.

I can’t explain why I feel so at ease with Tate, a man I met only a few hours ago. But I do. He feels oddly safe. He’s a breath of fresh, amber-scented air.

The thought makes me chuckle.

We sit quietly and enjoy our meal. We occasionally comment on the taste of our food or the songs playing faintly overhead. Otherwise, we simply share space.

I reach for my drink when a stunning couple stops at our table. The man is older and dazzling with thick, dark hair and intense eyes. The woman on his arm is breathtakingly beautiful in a sleek red dress.

“Fenton,” Tate says, standing. “It’s good to see you.”

Fenton extends a hand toward Tate. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

The woman looks down at me and smiles warmly. I instantly like her.