Nancy Warren - Her Valentine Fantasy

She smiled her gratitude and again he had that odd feeling, as though there was more between them than a few hot glances and a little chitchat while he’d waited her table. “Thanks. But I’m staying locally.”

“No problem. Take your time.” He wanted to touch her, maybe brush his fingers over her shoulder to let her know she was awesome and amazing and deserved better. In fact, he wanted a lot more. Toyed with the idea of asking if he could see her, then figured he’d come across as a bigger knob than the one who’d left five minutes ago.

He did the smart thing. He went back to the kitchen where the usual organized chaos prevailed.

When he returned, the woman at table 12 was gone. He picked up the folder and flipped it open, assuming there’d be cash inside.

There wasn’t.

Nor was there a credit card.

In the space where a credit card should have been was a hotel room keycard.

She didn’t seem like the dine-and-dash type. And, while she wouldn’t be the first female customer who ever propositioned him, he doubted the room card was anything but the slipup of a distressed woman who got dumped on her first date. More likely, she’d meant to put a credit card down and, well, who knew what she’d been thinking?

All he knew was, he needed to get paid, and she needed to get into her hotel room.

He gazed toward the front door but she’d already left. He stood for a moment, thinking, then ran into the back and told Barney, the most efficient waiter he had, to take over his few remaining tables.

Eloise, one of the sous chefs, was adding the spun-sugar flourish onto the forgotten Valentine Fantasy. She drizzled the heart-shaped chocolate with raspberry reduction. On impulse, Sam said, “Box that up, will you? She’s taking dessert to go.”

Seconds later, he headed for the door out onto the street.

“Hey, Sam, you coming back?” Chef yelled.

He turned. Thought of that sweet sexy woman currently heading back to her hotel without a keycard or a date. He had no idea what was going to happen. Maybe nothing. Probably nothing.

But he recalled the instant connection they’d felt. Said, “If I’m not back, close up, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

And he jogged out onto the street.

He knew from the keycard that table 12 was staying at a trendy boutique hotel in the next block and he headed in that direction. The evening was cold and he hadn’t bothered to grab a coat, so he walked swiftly, the wet streets and dripping trees telling him that it had only recently stopped raining.

He saw a woman he thought was table 12, seat two head into the hotel and took off running. He pushed through the glass doors, jogged through the lobby and caught up with her as she pushed the elevator button.

“Hi,” he said.

She glanced around. Took a second to place him and then said with surprise, “Hi.”

He produced the folder and opened it to show her the keycard. “You gave me your keycard instead of your credit card.”

A quick blush suffused her cheeks and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I just—I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry. Oh, I already said that.” She opened her small clutch as the elevator doors opened. Then she looked at him, embarrassment still warming her cheeks. “I’ve got cash upstairs. I hate to take you more out of your way, but I don’t want to make the walk of shame back to the restaurant with my credit card. I was— No man’s ever dumped me in the middle of a date before.”

He liked her. There was honesty and humor in her gaze. “Sure,” he said. “No problem.” They stepped inside the elevator and the doors closed. They were the only two riding up. He could smell her light fragrance, feel the energy between them. He said, “Not that it’s any of my business, but that guy was a total dick.”

She snorted with sudden laughter. “I know! I had no idea he’d be so full of himself. But it’s February and—”

“Valentine’s Day is coming,” he finished for her. “I know.”

They rode up fourteen floors. She said, “I hope this hasn’t inconvenienced you too much.”

“Not really.” He could see she felt bad enough. “I got somebody else to cover my tables.”

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. She preceded him into the hall. He followed her to her room and then handed her the keycard.

“Thanks.”

Then he produced the small, square bakery box.

“What’s in there? Handcuffs so you can take me in?”

She gazed at him over the box and he felt again that strong, sizzling sense of connection. He wished she hadn’t put the idea of handcuffs into his head. Now he pictured her cuffed to the bed while he pleasured her to the edge of madness.

Her lips tilted in a smile so sensual it melted him. He was almost overwhelmed by the urge to kiss her.

He stepped closer. “I’ve brought you your Valentine Fantasy.”

Jessica Lafayette opened her door with the keycard the hot waiter handed her, his last words still echoing between them. Her Valentine Fantasy? Could this horrible night be about to turn around?

“Thanks,” she said, holding the door open so he could enter. “I’ll get your cash.” Which left her with the dilemma of wanting to give him a very generous tip for causing him so much trouble and not wanting to embarrass either of them.

“Don’t worry about it now,” he said. “Enjoy your dessert.” Which meant he was planning to stay for a while.

Perfect.

She realized she didn’t even know his name. Benedict wasn’t one of those Hi, my name is Darrell and I’ll be your server tonight kind of places. It was much too upscale for that. Which meant she didn’t know the name of the guy she was inviting into her hotel room.

Slut! a voice in her head screamed.

Hell, yeah! her inner rebel cried.

Because clearly, following the rules hadn’t worked for her sex life. She’d been following rules so long she’d forgotten the thrill of bending them, even snapping a few now and then. She’d been serious, smart and hardworking all her life. She was the type of friend who never blabbed secrets or forgot birthdays. Which meant that she had a good degree, a great career, was beloved of her friends. But, while she’d been working her ass off in her job as an event planner and listening to her friends bitch about guys, she’d dated men who were too much like her. They put most of their energies into their careers, their sports and their buddies.

She’d ended up with a completely shitty love life.

Which is why, when another dateless New Year’s Eve came around, and her BFF Morgan asked her about her New Year’s resolution, she hastily revised her answer from the planned “increase ab workout to three times a week and lose an inch around my hips” to a slightly tipsy “have some seriously hot sex with a gorgeous guy.”

“It’s going to take you all year to get a decent shag?” Morgan demanded so loud everyone in the vicinity turned. Put vodka inside Morgan and the effect was the same as putting a megaphone in front of her mouth.

“No,” she whispered back, hoping her friend would take the hint. “I’ll do it by—” her mind searched for an obvious have-great-sex-by date “—by Valentine’s Day.”

“Way to put it out to the universe! Hot sex by V. Day. You go!” Morgan bellowed.

And, being the follow-the-rules-type of girl, once the hangover had passed, she signed up on two internet dating sites plus tried to spend fewer nights at the office and get out more socially. In the five weeks since she’d begun, her tally of great sex was exactly zero.

Tonight’s date was pretty typical of her luck so far—a guy on the rise in banking. She’d realized within three minutes that the only way he’d get her naked was if he bored the pants off her.