Fearless Read Free Page B

your approval?” he asks, not taking his eyes from the road.
    â€œNo! I mean, yes. I mean, sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”
    I blush again and look down at my hands in my lap. Why am I not better at this?
    â€œBe my guest,” he says placidly. “I plan to do some staring of my own later.”
    â€œOkay, well.” Flustered, I look out the window. “Where are we going?”
    â€œThe Capital Grille. I made reservations for seven thirty.”
    When we arrive at the restaurant, he pulls up to the valet stand and is out of the car and opening my door before I’ve even located the door handle. He holds out his hand to help me out of the car, and as I place my hand in his firm grasp I realize I could get used to this. His mannerisms and the confident way he does everything make me feel desirable and taken care of.
    He guides me toward the door with his hand at the small of my back again. Another thing I could get used to, although maybe I just like the feel of his hands on me. I try not to gape at the sumptuous decor as we enter the restaurant. Rich mahogany paneled walls, crisp white tablecloths, leather upholstered booths, and tables lit by small lamps suggest an air of luxury that explains why I’ve never been here before.
    â€œIs your dad already here?” I ask.
    â€œHe’s not coming tonight,” Beckett says. “I wanted to tell you a little more about the job before you talk to him. Also, you will need to sign the confidentiality agreement before we go any further.”
    â€œOh, okay,” I say slowly, noticing the papers in his hand. From what I’ve been able to determine from the research I did on his dad, he is, or at least he used to be, one of the preeminent cancer researchers in the country. It only makes sense I’d have to sign a confidentiality agreement.
    The waitress seats us at a small booth and without even glancing at me, Beckett orders a glass of Merlot for each of us. As the waitress leaves, I stare at him, dumbfounded. Did he really just order for me without even asking what I wanted? Or even if I drink? I can’t believe his presumptuousness. Before I can stop myself I blurt out, “Merlot is perfect! I haven’t had a glass of wine since the intervention last year. And let me tell you, I have missed that stuff!”
    Beckett looks at me, stricken.
    â€œYou’re a recovering alcoholic?” he asks in horror.
    I can’t believe I really just said that! What is wrong with me? It has clearly been too long since I’ve been on a date. It’s definitely not like me to just blurt out what’s on my mind. To think it? Yes. But to actually call him out on it? There’s just something about his formality and seriousness that makes me want to goad him. And it was a pretty arrogant move. Maybe there’s a bolder and more self-assured version of me just waiting for the opportunity to shine after all.
    â€œNo,” I say, relenting. “But I could have been. That was pretty presumptuous, ordering for me without even knowing if I drink wine.”
    Beckett stares at me for a long minute and I have to force myself not to squirm under his intent gaze. His eyes bore through me for so long that I’m starting to think I’ve made him angry. And then he laughs—a wonderful, deep, throaty sound that is so intoxicating I want to spend my whole life just trying to make him laugh.
    â€œWell, well. Little Emmaline has some fire in her,” he says. “You’re right. I’m sorry for my presumptuousness in ordering for you. What would you like?”
    â€œMerlot is fine,” I say. “It’s actually my favorite. I’m just used to making my own decisions.”
    Beckett reaches across the table, taking my hand in his. This time he laces his fingers with mine, and I feel a small thrill at the intimate familiarity, even as a decidedly unfamiliar surge of erotic awareness travels from our