He clears his throat, his gaze locked on mine. “Are you?”
Slowly I shake my head, smiling. “No. But next time, you should probably ask.”
“Next time I won’t need to ask because I’ll already know,” he says, frowning at me.
“I mean next time. When you bring another girl to this restaurant,” I correct, hating the cold ball that seems to have formed in my stomach at the idea of Shep bringing another girl here. A girl that will come after me, because one will, I don’t need to fool myself.
But I don’t necessarily need to think about her at this exact moment in time either.
He stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind and for a moment, I wonder if I have. Or maybe I have something on my face. Maybe there’s a smudge of mascara beneath my eye (I told Kelli not to put it on so thick) or maybe I have lipstick on my teeth. Crap, I don’t know. This guy makes me feel so self-conscious it’s almost painful.
Shep doesn’t say a word. He shakes his head and steps over to the hostess stand, telling the older woman who’s blatantly ogling him that he’d like a table for two.
As discreetly as possible I press my index finger to the corner of my right eye and wipe, then look at it. No black smudge. I do the same to my left eye but there’s no mascara there either. Licking my lips, I dart out my tongue, touching the corner before I wipe at it with my thumb, taking away a little lipstick but nothing major.
“What are you doing?”
I glance up to find Shep watching me very carefully. Almost too carefully. I stand up taller and drop my hand away from my face but otherwise I say nothing. How can I explain myself? I’d end up sounding ridiculous.
He leans in closer and bends down, his mouth almost level with my ear and I hear him murmur, “You look beautiful. Stop fidgeting.”
Pleasure blooms in my chest, spreads through my limbs at his compliment. I should be offended he said stop fidgeting like I’m a child but I’m too focused on the words that preceded that comment.
You look beautiful.
I know I’m not a hideous troll but it’s not easy being a natural redhead with fair skin and freckles. I hated my freckles with everything I had when I was younger but I’ve come to terms with them now. I used to hate the red hair too. I’d get mean comments from boys, especially in high school, asking if my crotch was as fiery as the hair on my head. Some asshole called Lindsay Lohan a particularly nasty name referring to her hair, ahem, down there once a long time ago and I blame him for starting that whole thing.
Fire Crotch.
Ugh.
The hostess leads us through the tiny dining area toward a small round table draped with a white tablecloth that sits next to a window. She presents our menus to us as soon as we’re in our chairs and then she buzzes off, ready to greet the next group of customers that just walked inside.
It’s crowded and warm, there’s music playing in the background and I glance to my right to find the view of the ocean breathtaking, the sun so low it looks like it’s melting into the water.
“Beautiful view,” I say as I turn to look at him, startled to find him staring at me blatantly.
Ravenously.
“Definitely,” he murmurs with a wicked smile and I feel the flush wash over me, my neck, my cheeks, oh my God even my forehead grows hot. He’s not talking about the ocean.
I think…I think he’s talking about me.
“You need to stop,” I tell him as I open the tiny menu to check out what is a rather limited selection.
“Stop what?” he asks innocently.
Glancing up, I find him watching me still, which only makes me blush harder. I silently curse my fair skin. And overly flirtatious guys. I have zero experience dealing with someone like Shep Prescott. “You’re making me nervous.”
“How?”
“With the—” I wave a hand. “—the compliments. The flirting.”
“You’ve never flirted with someone before?”
“Of course, I have,” I snap, immediately regretting my tone of voice. The man pushes me like no other. “It’s the way you flirt.”
“And how’s that?”
You’re good at it. More like, you excel in your flirtation skills. And I don’t know how to handle myself. I’m the failure, not you.
“The over the top compliments aren’t necessary either,” I say, avoiding his question.
“Afraid I’m going to have to disagree with you,” he tells me as he flips open his menu and studies it. “My compliments toward your beauty aren’t over the top.”
There he goes again, saying I’m beautiful. I don’t even know how to react. I feel like I want to laugh or tell him to stop like I’m some uncomfortable preteen who doesn’t know how to take a compliment.
More like I’m an uncomfortable nineteen year old who doesn’t know how to take one. So lame.
I guess I remain quiet for too long because he’s watching me again, his brows furrowed, his mouth, his entire expression serious. “Has no one told you you’re beautiful before?”
I shrug, mortified. “Beyond my mom? Who has to think I’m beautiful since she created me?”
He looks shocked. “What about Noel?”
Of course, he can’t get his name right. “You mean Joel? What about him?” Why are we talking about my ex on this so-called date?
“He never told you that you’re beautiful?” Now he sounds disgusted.