She’d order the beet salad and the chocolate soufflé, and then she would be miserable and self-conscious eating them by herself.
And this didn’t seem like the type of place to pull out a book as a shield.
Nope.
Plus, even if it was, it didn’t matter. Because Kay was ready to go home, ready to change into her sleep pajamas and watch repeats of Great British Bake Off. They gave her hope that someday she might actually develop some cooking chops . . . instead of cooking porkchops into submission.
Because shoe leather had nothing on hers.
Her gaze drifted to the other table, the one with the chocolate soufflé. The woman who’d ordered it had only eaten half and then she nodded to the waiter when he asked if she’d finished.
What kind of monster only finishes half a soufflé?
Kay’s nose wrinkled and her inner voice turned all grumbly. She wished she had a soufflé. She wouldn’t waste it.
And—ugh—because now the woman reached across the table and her partner or date or husband also stretched his hand out to lace their fingers together, his other palm coming up to cup her cheek. It was sweet and lovely and romantic—
“I want to be home,” she whined under her breath. “Right now.”
Romance was dead for the romance writer.
How fitting.
Blinking, she dug out her wallet and by the time her waiter returned with her check, she was ready, all but tossing her card onto the little metal tray. He zipped away and back in record time and then she scrawled her name, paying fifty bucks for two glasses of wine and a tip to make the poor guy’s night worth it.
Probably not as much as he would have made if she and her nonexistent date had actually eaten, but he’d been nice and not judgy, and hopefully it would take the edge off.
It wasn’t his fault that she’d been stood up.
Nope. That particular responsibility lay solely in Garret’s lap.
Kay blew out a breath, shrugged into her coat, and picked up her purse. The only good news was that her sleep pajamas were ready and waiting for her, laid out on her mattress.
She strode out of the restaurant, smiling to the hostess as she pushed through the door, and had just turned in the direction of her car when—
Wham!
Her purse dropped to the ground, spilling its contents everywhere, and she stumbled, almost falling, as a man shoved past her, cell phone glued to his ear.
He paused, glanced downing at her as though surprised to see a peon such as her existed. Probably not fair since there was a trace of concern in his gaze, but she certainly felt like a peasant when compared to the god in front of her.
Tall, dark, hot.
Black hair with the barest hint of a wave, tan skin and deep chocolate eyes, a jawline that could have been chiseled out of marble.
Yup. He was easy on the eyes.
“You okay?” he asked, and her heart skipped a beat.
Maybe not all men were assholes.
“I’m—” she began.
But once again, optimism was proven wrong.
Tall, dark, and handsome didn’t wait for her answer. Whoever was on the phone must have snagged his attention, because his expression hardened and he turned away, saying, “I don’t care if I’m late—”
Pieces fell into place.