Wherever It Leads(8)

I rock out to the radio for the hour drive, keeping the panic at bay until I take my final turn into the parking area for Ruma.

The sun is setting behind a line of palm trees as I pull in. My heart races as Presley’s Mercedes slows, coasting into the valet.

Vehicles, all likely worth more than I may ever make in my life, zip through the valet. No one opens their own doors, no one is dressed in less than the best. It’s unnerving.

A man dressed in a suit and tie opens my door. I grab my clutch out of the passenger seat and do a quick peek in the rearview mirror before climbing as gracefully as I can out of the car. Another man meets me with a clipboard, also dressed to the nines, and smiles.

“Reservations, Madam?”

“Yes.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Abbott.”

He tries not to look surprised, but his quick perusal of me from head to toe is obvious. “Can you please clarify?”

“Fenton Abbott.”

I swear his posture straightens as he takes a step away from me. “Right this way, Madam.”





We enter the restaurant through a side entrance. It’s covered with a heavy black awning, shielding us from view. The man in the suit opens the door for me and I step inside Ruma for the very first time.

The lights are dim. Everything is a deep, dark wood with pops of cinnamon and cream and touches of a frosty blue in the decor. Somehow the mixture is exotic and inclusive at the same time.

The entire back wall is lined with floor to ceiling windows that look out across the Pacific Ocean. I could pull up one of the cushioned settees that sit along the walls and watch the waves roll in . . . if Fenton wasn’t waiting on me.

The thought of seeing him again makes me giddy. I scan the room but don’t spot him.

“This way, please,” the maitre d’ says.

I follow the man through a set of inlaid wooden doors and into a smaller room. I don’t see anyone, just a few pieces of furniture, a painting, and an expensive Oriental rug.

My pulse beats wildly, strumming nearly out of control. I’m in way over my head here and I’m starting to feel like I’m in quicksand. I’ve never been to a private dining room before; not even with Presley. But to do it on a first date? With Fenton?

Panic begins to swamp me, the magnitude of the moment hitting me full-on. My steps falter a bit as I step further inside the room.

Fenton is standing in front of the windows that line this room too. One hand is pressed against the glass, the other holding a phone to his ear. He looks in complete control, dominating, and it makes my mouth water.

His charcoal grey suit is stretched across his wide shoulders, his legs shoulder-width apart. It’s the sexiest thing I have ever seen.

Lord help me when he turns around.

The door closes softly behind me. As if in slow motion, Fenton turns. The setting sun is to his back, almost like the universe is showcasing his splendor in case there was any doubt of his perfection.

He slips one hand in his pocket, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I’ll call you later,” he says into the phone and puts it in his pocket too.

All I can do is take him in. He’s doing the same as his gaze caresses me from head to toe. Even from the other side of the room, I can feel him skirting my curves, skimming my jawline. It’s visual intercourse, if that’s even a thing, and I’m ready to climax.

The top button of his shirt is undone, his tie gone. A dark belt wraps his narrow waist, giving him a look of sophistication. His jaw has a spattering of stubble and I wonder what it would feel like beneath my fingers.

The energy in the room crackles as he draws near. My breathing is rapid-firing and I take a deep breath to try to sort it out before he reaches me. I fumble with what to say and what to do. I’m not the smoothest on dates anyway, but with this Adonis? God almighty. I don’t know him well enough to know how to even address him. Come to think of it, I know three things: his name, he’s gorgeous, and he currently holds all the power. And I’m ready to remove all of my clothing. So I guess that makes it four.

“How are you, Brynne?” I hear the words, but can’t help but feel that it’s his eyes that are really doing the talking. He’s focused solely on me. A circus could be performing on the rug across the room and I have a feeling he wouldn’t notice. And neither would I.

“Did you have any problems finding the restaurant?” he asks.

“No problems,” I all but whisper. I can’t find my voice. It’s probably off swooning somewhere right along with the rest of me.

“I was getting worried. You had ten minutes and I was calling you,” he smiles.

“Am I late?”

“Just a little.”

“Did you think I was standing you up?”

A low chuckle rumbles through his chest. “I was more worried something had happened.”

“Well, I’m here,” I blush at the sentiment. “And fine.”

He takes me in again, head-to-toe, his smirk deepening. “And beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I say, trying to look the part of a woman that should be here with him. A supermodel should be standing by him to complete the picture.

He heads to a table that I didn’t notice before. It’s in the corner of the room near a bay window with an unprecedented view of the waterline below. I follow him across the large room and he pulls out my chair and I sit.