Operation Prince Charming by Phyllis Bourne Page B

have to order to make a real meal.
    He peered over at Ali, who had barely touched her fish. Her gaze flickered to his empty plate before coming to rest on his face.
    “Well, now that you’ve flunked formal dining…” She took a sip of wine. “Shall we order dessert?”
    Ali wasn’t surprised when the answer to her question was yet another violent growl coming from the direction of Hunter’s stomach.
    “This is some kind of reality show stunt, right?” She glanced around the restaurant. “Those growling noises are coming from a speaker under the table, and any minute the waiter is going to come back with Ashton Kutcher in tow and tell me I’ve been Punk’d .”
    She took another sip of her wine as she waited for him to expose the cameramen and let her in on the joke. It might have sounded far-fetched, but it was the only explanation she could think of for the way he’d practically attacked every morsel of food put in front of him.
    “Nothing that sinister,” Hunter said. “Work has been crazy lately, and I haven’t had a bite since yesterday afternoon.”
    “You should have said something,” she exclaimed. “We could have rescheduled.”
    Hunter shrugged. “I figured since our lesson was in a restaurant, we could kill two birds so to speak.”
    She heard his stomach growl again. “You can have mine.”
    She looked at her plate as she slid it toward him. The cut of salmon was tiny.
    Her aunt had raved about the service at this restaurant, but had cautioned the portions ran small. Still, she liked to use it for training because they set a wonderful formal table.
    Hunter shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ll pass on dessert too, which I’m guessing will be the size of a breath mint.”
    He leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. “I was thinking along the lines of some real food. You know, slow-cooked pot roast, smothered in its own gravy and topped with sliced red potatoes, baby carrots, pearl onions, and celery.”
    Ali licked her lips as he continued.
    “A slab of homemade bread on the side and a big hunk of black forest cake for dessert.”
    The next growl she heard might have come from her own stomach. She was too entranced by the images he’d conjured up in her head to know for sure.
    Not having the energy or the inclination to bother cooking a meal for just one person, she’d existed on frozen diet dinners since she’d arrivedin Nashville four months ago. The nuked meals had been hot and fast, and that had been good enough—until now.
    Ali could practically smell the mouthwatering aroma of Hunter’s fantasy meal, and her deprived taste buds danced in anticipation.
    “Sounds delicious. Unfortunately, they don’t serve that here,” she said.
    A mischievous spark lit up his dark brown eyes. “I know where they do,” he said. “Care to join me?”
    Ali shook her head no, just as her common sense directed. But her mouth refused to follow suit.
    “I’d love to,” she heard herself say aloud, then tried to backpedal. “I mean…I’d love to any other time, but I can’t,” she stammered.
    Hunter’s brow creased. “Why not?”
    Ali shifted in her seat, the high-back chair suddenly becoming uncomfortable. Because I’m attracted to you.
    “Don’t tell me I’m the only one still hungry. You were practically slobbering when I described that melt-in-your-mouth meal.”
    “Slobbering? I don’t slobber,” she said, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.
    He reached for his wallet and signaled for the waiter. “Let’s get out of here.”
    “The meal’s already taken care of,” she said.
    Hunter dropped a generous tip on the table. “Now let’s go.”
    Excitement thrummed through her, but Ali rationalized it was over the meal, not the man.
    “But…I drove. My car,” she said when they got to the lot.
    “It’s okay,” he said. “You can ride over with me, and I’ll swing you back by here after dinner.”
    Hunter opened the passenger door of a black muscle