Page 12 of Waiting for Acceptance (Nashville Nights #5)

LAUREN

I don’t know why I’m still entertaining this stupid little assignment.

I should have called Jack or Barbara the day Marcus told me I’d be doing training with Fitz.

This isn’t even training anymore it’s…I don’t even know what the fuck this is.

Harassment, maybe? It’s like anything and everything I need to do for work has to be run by Fitz or he has to be surgically attached to my hip while I do it.

It makes no sense, and quite frankly, I’m tired of entertaining it.

We pull up to one of the nicest Italian restaurants in town and I have to swallow past the argument in my throat for him to take me back to the office so I can grab something about forty dollars cheaper.

The last thing I’m going to do is tell him this place will completely wipe me of my spending budget for the week.

I turn around to grab my bag from the back seat and by the time I face forward again he’s at my door.

Why does he keep doing this?

He stands between the open passenger door and the back door, blocking my view of the street. My eyes bounce between his in confusion. “Am I not supposed to get out too?”

His eyes fall away from mine and down my body. “You’re in a dress.” It takes me a moment to process, but when it hits me what he’s doing, my stomach does a weird flip.

“Oh, thanks.” I slide out of the vehicle and adjust my dress, wrapping my coat tighter around me and he holds his arm out for me.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask, keeping my arms crossed over my chest.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you…you’re just…” I try to think of ways to explain why I’m confused without sounding like I’ve never been around a guy with manners before and quickly change my tone when I realize that there isn’t one. “Never mind.”

I take his arm and we walk into the building together, letting go as soon as we are inside.

Maybe this is normal where he’s from? To open doors and usher your co-worker into lunch like a true gentleman, even if you act like an asshole every other minute of the day.

I’m used to going to lunch with Luther, and sure we link arms when walking down the sidewalk, but that’s different for multiple reasons.

One being that we’re friends , the other being that I’ve never gotten mixed signals from him that he hates me one moment and then wonder if he’s checking me out the next.

It’s like a mental whiplash being around Fitz and it’s exhausting.

This place is very…quiet. I fear using the word romantic or even intimate because that would make me start imagining that this is a date—with the devil, no less—and I wouldn’t touch that idea with a ten-foot pole.

I’m used to going somewhere loud during lunch, either a deli or a drive-thru while listening to music or a podcast, or even having FaceTime lunch dates with some of the girls, but this is not like any of that.

The overhead lighting is dim, each table having a small tealight helping illuminate the space, the tables are small on the open floor and the booths along the walls aren’t much bigger.

“Right this way,” the hostess says, leading us to our table.

I continue looking around at the squared wooden columns with vintage artwork and decor hanging on them.

The gorgeous chandelier hanging in the center of the room, not giving much more than a nightlight's worth of brightness, is absolutely magnificent.

“Ever been here before?” Fitz asks as we slide into either side of the booth.

“Uh, no. Can’t say that I have.” I pick up the leatherbound menu, another sign this place is way too freaking fancy for me to frequent the way he’s probably assuming I do.

He hums to himself and it immediately rubs me the wrong way.

Like he’s judging me for not coming to a place where nothing on the menu is under twenty dollars, knowing he came from New York and has sold millions —ugh, I’ll never be able to get that phrase out of my head—the prices probably seem low to him.

Which makes me feel inferior in more ways than I care to count today.

With that thought, I quickly remember the way he became standoffish at our last showing and anxiety settles in my stomach, making me feel too nauseous to eat.

I place the menu down and grab the glass of water the waitress sat down a moment ago, taking a long sip.

“What’ll it be? I think the frittata affogato sounds good.” He continues scanning the menu as he talks.

“I’m not hungry,” I lie.

“But I thought you said?—”

“Just order your frittata and don’t worry about me, okay?

” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, running my forefinger along my water glass.

I try not to look at him, because those icy blue eyes of his are as seductive as they are scary, but when the heat of his gaze begins burning my skin, I break.

I glance up to see him staring intently at me, his menu now closed and pushed off to the side.

I watch his throat work as he swallows and just when I think he’s about to say something, the waitress comes back.

“Have we decided?” I glance up at her and meet her wide smile with a small one of my own.

“Just the water for me, thanks.” She nods politely at me and when I look back at Fitz his eyes are still locked on me, the weight of his stare making my cheeks heat.

“I’ll have a glass of Lambrusco, the Italian Sausage & Pepper Frittata Affogato, and an order of Chicken Florentine Pasta. Thank you.” He barely glances at her as she tells us she’ll be back with his order shortly, then he’s back to me.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” My heart hammers in my chest at his words.

“What?”

“There will be no critique from me after lunch. You are one of the best sales agents I’ve ever had the opportunity to observe.

You were excellent today.” I open my mouth to say something, but shut it again when I can’t think of what I want to say.

I want to tell him his opinion doesn't matter to me, that I could give a fuck less what he thinks because I know I’m a damn good agent.

But the fact that the anxious pit in my stomach has subsided along with the way I had to fight a smile at his praise tells me I’d only be fooling myself.

Damn my undeniable need to please people.

“Then why did you leave at the end of the last one?” I ask, refusing to say thank you , or anything that would give him the satisfaction of knowing his words meant anything to me.

“Believe it or not, something more important than crown molding and spider burners came up.” I’m chewing on the inside of my lip so hard to keep from laughing when the waitress comes and puts Fitz’s food in front of him.

My stomach growls when the scent of the delicious Chicken Florentine sauce hits my nose and I immediately regret my decision to not order, at the very least, a salad.

“Would you like this?” He points to the dish I’m staring at and I raise a brow at him.

“Feeling gluttonous all of a sudden, are we?” I tease. His gaze narrows and his jaw works as he shrugs back into his seat.

“Just thought you might be hungry after all, but if not…”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes and his nostrils flare. “Yes, I would like some. I’m fucking starving.” The devilish smirk on his face makes me immediately regret my decision.

“Say please.” My cheeks flame with anger as my fingertips grip the plate across from me.

I lean in closer to him until my ribs hit the table. “Bite me.” Then I pull the plate to me, holding his heated gaze as I unroll my silverware and place my napkin in my lap.

His tongue peeks out to wet his lips, making me feel completely disarmed. Two can play this game, Fitz . I reach across the table and pick up his wine glass, taking a sip before placing it back down in front of him.

He scoffs and shakes his head. “Brat.”

This time I don’t hold back my smile, and I even add a little wink for flair.