Page 37 of Shark’s Edge

“Not tonight, of course.”

“Of course,” I repeated lightly. However, I did so mockingly. “Let’s just—”

“I’ll have Craig reach out to set something up. You have any allergies or culinary hard limits?”

“Hard . . . limits?”

Dear freaking God. It sounded like I’d never heard the words before. I had—just never in the same discussion as dinner.

With hypnotic finesse, Sebastian handled my query with a steady stroke along the side of my neck. “Things you can’t or won’t eat, Little Red.”

“Uhhhh . . . ” I opened my mouth. Closed it. Forced my lips to connect with words again. “No. I . . . ummm . . . enjoy all kinds of cuisine. But—”

“Outstanding.”

His smile widened, opening a chasm of bliss in my chest. The man’s smile was more devastating than his eyes.

“I’ll instruct Craig to get his ass to Belcampo Meats and grab us a pair of steaks. We can talk while they’re on the grill. You like California or French reds better?”

“I—” Was still having issues with basic language, apparently. “Wh-Who’s Craig?”

“My personal assistant. He’ll make sure you get the address and all the proper NDA forms.”

“Your personal assistant? That’s not Terryn? NDA forms?”

“Terryn is my executive assistant. The NDA is standard protocol, Abbigail. Practically the same agreements you signed when Shark Enterprises signed you on as our caterer.”

With massive effort to focus, I finally stepped away from his potent hold. “I’m still your exclusive caterer?”

He pivoted, looking as regal as a king while handing my phone back. “For now, yes.”

I matched his imperious regard while taking the device. “Depending on how much you enjoy yourself when I fix you dinner?”

“When I fix you dinner.”

It didn’t surprise me, but it didn’t put me at ease, either. “With reimbursement for everything . . . after dinner?”

That shot the man’s smile way past devastating. For several seconds, I struggled for a decent descriptor beyond that but had to give up. Words were impossible when I thought about paying the man back for a juicy steak. Basic thoughts were impossible. Where the hell was my inner temptress when I needed her?

“Why don’t we start with you bringing dessert, Little Red?” He amped the agony of the moment by maintaining the few feet of distance between us—despite the illicit ideas sparkling so clearly in his sapphire gaze. “And then we’ll see what develops after some chocolate and wine.”

A protest surged up my throat. I was ready to give it full rein, along with a dozen more reasons why this “date” was a bad idea. Topping the list was my own cardinal rule put in place by my sound business sense—which had borne a huge black eye the second I let Sebastian lay his lips on me.

But if I didn’t do this . . .

“You know this is bordering on extortion, right?”

It needed to be voiced. Without snark or lip or anything except what it was. The truth.

Trouble was . . . it also gave Shark a damn good excuse to reclose the steps between us.

Then to tunnel his hand back beneath my ponytail.

Then to move in even tighter, invading my space and my energy every way he possibly could.

Then to flood my senses with all his heat and size and power and determination . . .

Oh, this is so nice . . .