Page 12

12

Piper

I would have never guessed Jake would go all out.

A thousand bucks was a ridiculous price to pay for a date, but it looks like Jake Ice plans to make sure I get my money’s worth.

I step into the restaurant and head for the host stand, trying not to fidget with my clutch.

The hostess smiles at me, graceful and polished in all black with a soft red scarf knotted at her neck. “Good evening.”

“I’m meeting someone. Jake Ice.”

Her smile deepens slightly as she checks her list. “Ah, yes. Right this way, Mrs. Reed.”

My stomach does a tiny, involuntary flip.

I blink.

He left my name?

I didn’t expect that.

Not just “Piper.” Not just “plus one.” He used my full name, like this wasn’t some charity auction prize—but a real date. Like it mattered.

I follow her through the main dining room, heels clicking softly on warm wood floors, and immediately realize I was all kinds of wrong about this place.

I’d heard of Rosario’s before. Fancy. Popular with anniversary couples and wine snobs. I always figured it was a stuffy white-tablecloth place full of men in golf shirts and women who complain about portion sizes.

But this? This is something else.

The interior is warm, glowing with ambient light from hand-blown glass pendants overhead. Wooden beams stretch across the high ceiling, and the air smells like rosemary, garlic butter, and good wine. A woman with a voice like smoke is singing on a small stage in the corner, accompanied by a guy on guitar. Not lounge music—actual music. Her voice carries just enough to float, not intrude.

We weave through the restaurant, past low-lit tables filled with couples leaning close and servers gliding smoothly between them. The atmosphere feels expensive without being stiff. Elevated without trying too hard. For a second, I don’t feel like I’m in Cedar Creek anymore. I could be in Manhattan. L.A. Chicago. Who know where. I’ve never been to any of those cities, but I’ve seen enough TV to know this could be any of them.

People glance at me as I pass. I don’t blame them.

The midnight-blue dress I’m wearing is low-cut and clingy in that very intentional way—soft fabric skimming my hips, dipping at my back, hugging every curve. It’s worked on men before. It was meant to make a statement. Sexy, but not desperate. Confident, but not begging. The kind of dress that says: I know I’m hot, I don’t need you to tell me—but go ahead and look anyway. My boobs are perfectly framed, my waist is cinched just right, and the slit at my thigh makes walking feel like a slow, deliberate performance. I don’t wear this dress unless I want to be looked at. Tonight, I absolutely do.

But when I see his face, that flicker in Jake’s expression—gone as fast as it appeared—is something else entirely.

He’s standing beside a two-top on the balcony, framed by soft string lights and a view of the courtyard garden below. The table is already set, a bottle of red wine breathing between two glasses. His blazer hugs his broad frame like it was custom-stitched, and the top two buttons of his black shirt are undone, just enough to tease a glimpse of tanned skin.

When he spots me, he sets his drink down without breaking eye contact, and picks up the single red rose resting beside the wine.

Oh.

Okay, maybe I’m not the only one trying to make a statement.

He steps forward, but doesn’t speak yet. Just hands me the rose with a look I can’t quite decipher—equal parts challenge and appreciation.

“Mrs. Reed,” he says smoothly, voice a low drawl. “Glad you could join me.”

His eyes dip—to my cleavage, not subtly—and then flick back to my face like nothing happened. But I saw it. The flicker of heat. The silent appreciation. I know this dress shows off my boobs, and I know damn well they look incredible tonight. Apparently, so does he. A slow curl of heat rolls through me, low and tight.

I take the rose, ignoring the thrill that shoots through me. “Thank you. Thought I’d see what I paid for.”

His fingers brush against mine during the exchange, and the brief contact sends a current up my arm that settles somewhere beneath my ribs. I try to ignore it, but my skin remembers the touch.

He smiles slowly. “I plan to make it worth every penny.”

Of course he does.

He pulls out my chair like a damn gentleman, waits for me to sit, and then circles the table to take his own. As he shrugs out of his blazer and drapes it over the back of the empty chair beside him, I get a flash of strong forearms, veined and tan, as he rolls up his sleeves. One. Then the other. Intentional. Slow.

The kind of forearms that make you want to say thank you.

Then—because the universe clearly wants to mess with me—he turns just enough to place the blazer neatly, giving me a direct view of his butt in those obscenely fitted jeans. Those jeans–God help me. They’re sinfully tight, hugging every muscle, every flex of his powerful thighs as he shifts his weight. His ass is obscene , the kind that could convince a woman to make some very bad decisions. My mind takes a sharp left into dangerous territory, picturing those jeans off , his hands gripping my hips, pressing me down onto the table as—

Nope. Not tonight, Satan.

But it’s official. This man is weaponized.

I snap myself out of it, clearing my throat as I approach. He turns to face me fully, his sharp blue eyes locking onto mine with that same smug, knowing glint.

“You good, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice a slow drawl as he takes a sip of his drink.

I refuse to be the first to look away. “Peachy. Just surprised you went with the full ‘sweep her off her feet’ routine. Didn’t peg you as the candlelit dinner type.”

He smirks, setting his glass down. “I’m full of surprises.”

I roll my eyes, forcing a casual smile. “Yeah, like how you managed to make me drop a grand on this date.”

“Did I really? What do you mean?”

“Nothing."

He pulls out my chair for me, an infuriatingly smooth gesture that makes my skin tingle. “I don't think I could ever make you do anything you didn't want to. Or could I?"

"Hell no."

"If anything, I probably could strategically encourage you.. .”

“Well, just so you know, I only bid that much because I thought I could write it off as a tax-deductible mistake.”

I settle into my seat, watching him as he takes his own. “So, tell me, Jake. Do you always pull out all the stops like this? Or am I just special?”

He tilts his head slightly, considering. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? Enlighten me.”

His lips curve into something almost lazy, a slow, confident smirk that should be illegal. “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who wastes her time—or her money. So if you’re here, Piper, you must think I’m worth it.”

My pulse skips before I can stop it. Damn him.

I keep my expression neutral, swirling my wine. “Or maybe I just wanted to see if the hype was real.”

His grin deepens. “And? What’s the verdict?”

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice like I’m sharing a secret. “Jury’s still out.”

He chuckles, low and rough. “Then I guess I’ll have to make a convincing case.”

The waiter appears at the edge of the table, but before I can speak, Jake leans in slightly, eyes still on me. “I’ve been here before,” he says, voice smooth as sin. “May I order for both of us?”

Something about the way he asks—like he already knows I’ll say yes—sends a spark right down my spine.

I nod. “Go ahead. If I don’t like it, I’ll just steal off your plate.”

This must be costing him a fortune. A twinge of guilt slides through me. Just last week, I was ripping apart hockey players like him on my blog—calling them overpaid, entitled man-children with more muscles than brains. Yet here I am, charmed by one of them. The hypocrisy isn't lost on me, but I push the thought away. Penelope Darling isn't here tonight. Just Piper.

“Seafood or steak?”

“Seafood. I’m not in the mood for a big slab of red meat tonight.”

He turns to the waiter, rattling off selections without missing a beat. “Seared scallops for the lady. Filet mignon for me, medium rare, béarnaise on the side. Grilled asparagus, garlic mashed. For both.”

I watch him as he speaks, the way his fingers drum lightly on the table, the way his lips move around each word.

The waiter nods like Jake owns the place. And honestly? In this moment, it feels like he does.

I hate how hot that is.

The waiter disappears.

Jake picks up his wineglass, gaze sliding back to me like he already knows exactly what he's doing. “Wait until you see mine . Your mouth’s gonna water.”

I raise a brow, lifting my glass. “Confident.”

He leans in just a little, lips curving. “I might even give you a taste.”

“You talking about your steak, right?”

“Smart girl,” he laughs. “But seriously, I don’t know if you’ll survive the béarnaise. Maybe I should play it safe?”

I pretend I don’t follow his double entendres. “You mean, you should have got me chicken?” I raise a brow. “That was an insult, right?”

He laughs again. “Really smart girl. Okay, maybe a gentle roast. But you don’t strike me as a salad-and-sparkling-water kind of girl.”

“Good. Because I’d rather lick béarnaise off your—” I pause, smirking. “—steak than pretend to diet.”

Jake chokes on a laugh. “Damn. You’re dangerous.”

“Disappointed?”

He leans in, slow and smug. “Only that we’re in public.”