Page 28 of Making Over Maris

She pressed her lips together as she thought about it. “Okay. One glass.”

She ended up having three. Since Jack kept nursing his first glass—very cognizant that he was driving home—she probably drank most of the bottle.

Whatever. By the time their plates were empty—nearly licked clean as the osso buco turned out to be delicious veal in a wine broth with gremolata and perfect risotto—she was getting somewhat mischievous.

Jack had known Sara forever. He knew she was a playful minx. But he’d never had it turned on him. Full force.

She’d never flirted with him.

Not even fake flirted with him.

Oh, he knew it was fake but he still liked it. Hell, he loved it. She’d been on so many dates, with so many other men. That should have soured his mood but it didn’t. Because she was here now. With him.

The way she would glance at him and then glance away, then run a finger around the lip of her wineglass made him crazy. And he was sure she didn’t realize it but her foot kept brushing against his under the table.

Each time that happened, his cock ticked up another notch on the Mohs scale.

She gazed at him across the table, her attention flitting from his shoulders to his neck to his mouth. He was certain his rising warmth had little to do with the wine.

And with that rising tide, the devil within him emerged.

If she was going to fake flirt with him, he was going to fucking fake flirt right back.

She leaned forward. “Jack?”

He leaned forward as well. “Yes, Sara?”

“You are doing very well on this date.”

“Thank you.”

“But you need to be more…aggressive.”

He swallowed. “A-aggressive?”

“Yes. More aggressive.”

“I thought aggressive was bad.”

“Not always.” She took a sip of her wine. “For example, whenever my foot accidently touches yours under the table, you move away.”

Holy crap. That had been on purpose? The little hairs on his neck stood on end. “Um. Yeah?”

“What if it wasn’t an accident? What if I’ve been touching your foot on purpose?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin as her foot brushed his calf. “I-is t-that what you’ve been doing?”

She fingered the pattern in the tablecloth. “Maybe. There’s only one way to find out.” A howling heat lashed through him as she peeked up at him. The look in her eyes was…astounding.

“H-how?”

Her slender, swanlike neck undulated. Then she whispered, “Touch me back.”

God. Oh, God.

He nearly dropped his fork when her foot rubbed up against his again. Then made its way past the cuff of his pants. She’d removed her shoes.

Her shoes.