Page 103 of Playing Her Game

I let the teasing hang in the air for another moment before I step closer and lower my voice.

“You may not be asking me on a date, but I’m asking you.”

Her smile falters, just a little, and her eyes meet mine.

“Go on a date with me, fancy?” I tilt my head toward the road. “I heard about this little place up ahead. Supposed to have a great view.”

She looks at me for a long second, and I let her take her time. No pressure. No assumptions. Just the question.

Then her mouth curves. “You heard about it, did you?”

“Word gets around.”

“About a little restaurant in the mountains?”

“I have excellent sources.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “All right, Reznik. Take me on a date.”

I grin as I walk around and open her door. “Yes, ma’am.”

The drive takes us farther into the mountains, the road narrowing as we leave the busier stretch behind. Snow clings to the shaded shoulders, and the peaks rise ahead, their upper slopes white against the pale winter sky. Anna points out a turn before the navigation announces it, then directs me along a short road that climbs above the valley.

The restaurant sits on a rise overlooking the mountains, its dark timber exterior softened by flower boxes and evergreen garlands wrapped around the porch railings. Tall windows face the valley and catch the afternoon light. A handful of cars sit in the lot, and smoke curls from a chimney above the sloping roof.

I get out and open her door.

“This is it,” she says, a little quieter than before as she climbs out of her seriously hot little black G Wagon.

“Good memories?”

“Mostly.” She looks out at the building. “I remember being cold and hungry, and him insisting I needed something warm before we drove home.”

“Sounds sensible.”

“Loved it as a kid. It was deeply irritating as a teen, because the service used to suck.” She laughs as I open the door.

She takes my offered hand, and she takes it without pause. “Your hands are cold.”

“It’s winter, hockey guy.”

I open the door, and she walks in ahead of me.

Inside, the place is warm and inviting, with honey-colored wood, stone walls, and broad windows framing the valley like a painting. A few couples sit at tables near the glass, talking over steaming plates and glasses of wine. The air smells of roasted meat, fresh bread, and butter.

The hostess greets us in German, and Anna answers easily, asking for a table by the window. We’re led to a small table overlooking the snow-covered slopes, and I pull out her chair before taking mine.

“Thank you,” she says, smoothing her coat before handing it to me.

I hang both our coats on the hooks beside the table, then settle across from her. For a moment, neither of us says anything. The mountains fill the windows behind her, but I can’t bring myself to look anywhere else.

She catches me staring. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s convincing.”

“I’m admiring the view.”