minutes.”
“I can’t wait.”
The walk wasn’t bad, but the sidewalks were more crowded than ever. It was nearly as packed as Times Square, but all these people were intent on going somewhere. She slowed down as she approached City Hall and nearly got flattened by a woman in a business suit.
“Watch where you’re going,” the woman barked without looking.
“Sorry.” She was already gone. Victoria ducked across the flow of people and stopped between two planters. She tried to look for Trent, but there were a million men in suits, each more anonymous than the next.
After a few minutes of waiting, her phone buzzed again. “Look straight ahead. I’m in a cab.”
A gray-clad arm waved from a yellow sedan. Victoria waved back. “I see you.” She pocketed her phone and pushed her way through the crowd.
Trent pushed open the door and beckoned her inside. He dominated the cab like a king on his throne. Even at the end of a workday and in the backseat of a taxi, he looked amazing. His gray suit was immaculate and exactly the shade of his eyes. A broad grin cracked his slightly stubbled face. “How’s the city treating you?”
Victoria sat beside him. She smiled so wide it practically hurt. “It’s amazing. Overwhelming. So unlike Nebraska. I think Manhattan and Omaha have about as much in common as the Earth and the Moon.”
Trent chuckled. “You might be right. I called ahead to Les Havres. The one on Park.”
“What’s Les Havres?”
“A French brasserie. Tony Bordeaux’s place when he’s in town.”
“Ohhh.” Her eyes grew wide. “That sounds great.” The cab switched lanes, then swung around a corner, sending Victoria sliding across the seat into Trent. As he caught her and helped her sit up, she caught his scent. A touch of cologne, a dab of aftershave, the barest hint of sweat. It was like smelling the Platonic ideal of manliness. Between his scent and his touch, her stomach fluttered.
“Are you okay?” He patted her knee.
“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting the turn. I’m good.” She let her hand brush his thigh, feeling the contrasting softness of his suit and the hardness of his muscle. A shiver went through her. God, he was sitting in the back of a cab after a day at the office and he was sexy as hell. Why had she waited to move to New York?
The cab’s horn honked, then it pulled to a stop. “This is it,” the driver called back. He watched in the rear-view mirror as Trent swiped a credit card. “You need a receipt?”
“We’re good.” Trent pushed open the door and helped Victoria out to the sidewalk.
A hostess greeted them at the door. A long wooden divider ran down the middle of the restaurant, splitting it roughly in half. She was around Victoria’s age and Indian. “Welcome to Les--“
Trent cut her off. “Just two.”
The hostess narrowed her eyes, but grabbed menus and led them around the left side of the divider toward the tables without saying anything to get herself in trouble. Victoria admired her poise. To the right of the divider was the bar. About half the tables were already full, maybe thirty people total, their susurrus of conversation hanging in the air.
The lights were lower on the dining side, and it had a very intimate feel. When the hostess set their menus on the table, Trent pulled out Victoria’s chair and waited for her to sit.
Trent spoke without looking at a menu. “A bottle of the Château Lécuyer, Pomerol.”
“Very good, sir.”
It was wine, Victoria assumed, though she wasn’t sure what kind. It seemed odd that he’d order it straight from the hostess without waiting for a server, but he knew the restaurant better than she did.
Trent placed his jacket over the back of the chair, twitching the shoulders so it hung without a wrinkle. “I hope you like Bordeaux. It’s one of my favorites.”
“I do.” More or less. She was more of a margarita and daiquiri kind of girl, but what was the point of being in New York if you drank the
“I can’t wait.”
The walk wasn’t bad, but the sidewalks were more crowded than ever. It was nearly as packed as Times Square, but all these people were intent on going somewhere. She slowed down as she approached City Hall and nearly got flattened by a woman in a business suit.
“Watch where you’re going,” the woman barked without looking.
“Sorry.” She was already gone. Victoria ducked across the flow of people and stopped between two planters. She tried to look for Trent, but there were a million men in suits, each more anonymous than the next.
After a few minutes of waiting, her phone buzzed again. “Look straight ahead. I’m in a cab.”
A gray-clad arm waved from a yellow sedan. Victoria waved back. “I see you.” She pocketed her phone and pushed her way through the crowd.
Trent pushed open the door and beckoned her inside. He dominated the cab like a king on his throne. Even at the end of a workday and in the backseat of a taxi, he looked amazing. His gray suit was immaculate and exactly the shade of his eyes. A broad grin cracked his slightly stubbled face. “How’s the city treating you?”
Victoria sat beside him. She smiled so wide it practically hurt. “It’s amazing. Overwhelming. So unlike Nebraska. I think Manhattan and Omaha have about as much in common as the Earth and the Moon.”
Trent chuckled. “You might be right. I called ahead to Les Havres. The one on Park.”
“What’s Les Havres?”
“A French brasserie. Tony Bordeaux’s place when he’s in town.”
“Ohhh.” Her eyes grew wide. “That sounds great.” The cab switched lanes, then swung around a corner, sending Victoria sliding across the seat into Trent. As he caught her and helped her sit up, she caught his scent. A touch of cologne, a dab of aftershave, the barest hint of sweat. It was like smelling the Platonic ideal of manliness. Between his scent and his touch, her stomach fluttered.
“Are you okay?” He patted her knee.
“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting the turn. I’m good.” She let her hand brush his thigh, feeling the contrasting softness of his suit and the hardness of his muscle. A shiver went through her. God, he was sitting in the back of a cab after a day at the office and he was sexy as hell. Why had she waited to move to New York?
The cab’s horn honked, then it pulled to a stop. “This is it,” the driver called back. He watched in the rear-view mirror as Trent swiped a credit card. “You need a receipt?”
“We’re good.” Trent pushed open the door and helped Victoria out to the sidewalk.
A hostess greeted them at the door. A long wooden divider ran down the middle of the restaurant, splitting it roughly in half. She was around Victoria’s age and Indian. “Welcome to Les--“
Trent cut her off. “Just two.”
The hostess narrowed her eyes, but grabbed menus and led them around the left side of the divider toward the tables without saying anything to get herself in trouble. Victoria admired her poise. To the right of the divider was the bar. About half the tables were already full, maybe thirty people total, their susurrus of conversation hanging in the air.
The lights were lower on the dining side, and it had a very intimate feel. When the hostess set their menus on the table, Trent pulled out Victoria’s chair and waited for her to sit.
Trent spoke without looking at a menu. “A bottle of the Château Lécuyer, Pomerol.”
“Very good, sir.”
It was wine, Victoria assumed, though she wasn’t sure what kind. It seemed odd that he’d order it straight from the hostess without waiting for a server, but he knew the restaurant better than she did.
Trent placed his jacket over the back of the chair, twitching the shoulders so it hung without a wrinkle. “I hope you like Bordeaux. It’s one of my favorites.”
“I do.” More or less. She was more of a margarita and daiquiri kind of girl, but what was the point of being in New York if you drank the
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