But that wasn’t why my cheeks hurt from smiling. Or why my hands itched to touch her. Or why I had forgotten about the entire world outside that restaurant.
Of course I’d been shocked when Levee had pulled her sunglasses off, but really, I’d been just so fucking relieved that her life wasn’t nearly as hard as I had speculated over the last week. It was a huge burden off my shoulders for me to know that she had the money and support system in place to take care of her issues. She wasn’t some lonely woman navigating life alone. Kidnapping wouldn’t be necessary. I could focus on getting to know the real person behind the shades. The one I had so fiercely connected with over the last week.
“You can’t hold that against me. I mean, I like your music too. I was trying to be honest.” I laughed as her mouth hung open in mock horror.
Clinking her glass of sangria against my beer, she said, “I can’t believe you like Henry more than me! Well, I guess the good news is that Henry would probably prefer you over me too.”
“Hey! I’m not gay. I just said I like one of his songs. One.” I waved a single finger in her direction.
“Seriously, this is the story of my life. He’s going to try to woo you.”
I stabbed my thumb toward my chest. “Straight.”
“Oh please. Far bigger men than you have swapped teams for Henry.”
“Okay, slow down there, princess. No one is switching teams. I’m trying to woo you with cheap sangria right now. One step at a time, please.”
“I swear to God, Sam. Stop calling me princess,” she demanded, but one corner of her lips twitched. And I only noticed it because I was watching her mouth—intently.
“It’s just… Designer Shoes doesn’t have the same oomph to it.”
“You’ve spent the last week trying to get my name. Use it,” she snapped but hid her amusement by lifting the glass to her lips.
Reaching across the table, I pressed up on the bottom of her drink. “Clearly, with that attitude, you haven’t been wooed properly. You should have more.”
“Stop,” she laughed, spilling the red liquid down her chin as she fought to set the glass back down.
After nabbing my napkin, I wiped it off her face while she cleaned it from her lap.
“Great,” she said. “I’m a mess now.”
“Well, that just makes us a matching pair.” I pointed to my shirt where, earlier, she had accidently flung sauce on me.
“I told you I was sorry. That plantain chip went rogue. You can’t hold me responsible for that.”
I shook my head, sliding my hand across the table to intertwine our fingers.
Staring down at our joined hands, she whispered, “This is fun.”
I gave her a squeeze. She wasn’t wrong. It was, by far, the best night I’d had in as long as I could remember. Amazing. Yes. Surreal. Incredibly. I could easily go so far as to say great.
Conversation flowed easily. She made me laugh, and I made her scowl—then laugh. We didn’t talk about the heavy. I didn’t ask her why she was on that bridge every night, and she didn’t ask me, either. We just bullshitted like old friends.
It was great.
She was great.
I had an overwhelming need to keep her great.
“What’s your last name?” she asked, dropping her napkin on the table.
“Rivers.”
“Shut up. I’m serious.”
“So am I.” I dragged a rePURPOSEd card from my wallet and slid it across the table. “Just think how fun your name would be if we got married.” I winked.
She glared.
“What? Too soon?”
“By, like, ten years.”
“Ten years? The sangria is not that bad.” I feigned injury.
She barked a laugh. “So, tell me about rePURPOSEd?”
“I take junk, repurpose it, then sell it as new. Too easy. Rich people love it.” I paused. “Present company excluded, of course.”
“Guitar bookshelves?”
“Yep.”
She flipped my hand over and traced a finger around the cut on my palm. Tingles radiated out from her touch. I was done keeping my hands to myself. I desperately wanted the connection the table had been denying me all night.
Pushing my chair away, I gave her hand a squeeze. “C’mere.”
Her cheeks pinked as she stood and slowly closed the distance between us. With a quick tug, I pulled her off-balance and into my lap.
Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, I brushed my thumb over her bottom lip. I leaned in for a welcomed taste, and the sweet fruit from the sangria covered the mango I’d come to expect. “I want to see you again.”
A shy-schoolgirl blush tinted her cheeks even darker. “We do kinda have a standing date for tomorrow night on the bridge.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I glided a hand up her back, and as if she had been waiting for a sign, hers seductively slid under the edge of my shirt. Her smooth fingers teasing my skin stole my breath. I gasped and caught her wrist. “I want to see you again, but not on the bridge.”
“Okay,” she whispered, brushing her lips against mine.
She was squirming on my lap. I couldn’t be responsible for the stir of my cock—or the way she seemed to approve by shifting her weight to press against it. I scanned the room, suddenly aware that I was about to maul her in public, and caught sight of Devon escorting our waitress and the owner into the kitchen.
Maybe he is good for something.
With our audience gone, I took her mouth indecently. She responded by straddling my lap, her dress inching up as she planted her core directly over my zipper. I groaned and thrust a hand into her hair, pulling her head back and moving my assault to her neck.
“You drunk?” I asked between nips.
“A little,” she moaned, grinding a circle in my lap.
Fuck. Me.
“I see my wooing worked.”
She turned her head to the side, encouraging me to continue.
God, did I want to continue. Just not in the middle of a restaurant with a room full of people corralled in the kitchen. But how could I get her anywhere else without looking like a jackass who was just trying to sleep with the celebrity? I knew the girl on the bridge, and everyone knew Levee Williams. But I needed her to get to know Sam Rivers…fast.
Palming each side of her face, I dropped my forehead to hers. “I’m about to make things awkward. It’s kinda what I do. Just bear with me.”
She licked her lips, and I was forced to kiss her again. When I finally came back up for air, I continued.
“My name is Samuel Nathan Rivers. I’m twenty-seven. Aquarius. No criminal history. I have a clean bill of health. I’m a democrat, but for God’s sake, do not tell my mom. I own a furniture shop and clear six figures a year. I’m not interested in your money. I’ll show you my tax return if need be. I’m also not a super-fan interested in your fame. But, for the love of all that’s holy, I need you, Designer Shoes, to come home with me.”
Her eyes lit. “Devon would have a stroke.” She pushed my hands off her face in order to take my mouth again.
A frustrated growl rumbled in my chest. My cock wasn’t concerned in the least about Devon’s health.
“Levee,” I grumbled as she folded her arms around my shoulders, pressing her chest against mine. “Devon can—”
“But you can come home with me.”
God fucking bless America.
Suddenly, I rose to my feet with her still wrapped around me. “Check please,” I called out loudly, digging into my back pocket for my wallet with one hand while she clung to me, giggling.
I couldn’t help my smile as she buried her face in my neck and slid down to the ground.
“I’m going to the restroom. If you must, now’s the time to smoke. I don’t want you to have a heart attack before I get you naked.” She innocently batted her eyelashes at me as if she hadn’t just whispered sweet nothings directly to my cock.
I bit my lip, watching her ass sway as she walked away.
Scrubbing my face, I tried to get myself together while fighting the biggest shit-eating grin known to man. When I looked up, Devon was glowering at me with his arms crossed over his massive chest.