Max stopped us in front of her and didn’t let go of my hand.

“Got a table?”

“Yep,” she said instantly and I looked into the packed restaurant. Then I looked behind us. Then beside us. All the open space and outside was filled with people standing waiting for tables.

I also noticed they were kind of dressed like me, except different, slightly more casual. But they were obviously tourists on vacation wearing vacation clothes, not locals.

Locals, evidently, didn’t have to wait for tables.

She grabbed some stuff from under the hostess station, turned and walked into the restaurant. Max tugged my hand and we followed her. She took us to the far, back corner where there was an empty booth that a busboy was still wiping down. He scurried off with a smile and a, “Hey Max,” before he passed.

She slapped down white paper placemats, utensils wrapped in napkins and a plastic bucket filled with crayons.

Then she turned to Max and asked, “Usual?”

“Yeah,” he replied, using my hand to position me toward the side of the booth that had its back to the wall, facing the restaurant. “Two,” he concluded.

“Gotcha.”

“Wait,” I called when she started to move away.

“Yeah?” she asked, eyes on me.

“I like your earrings,” I told her. “They’re stunning.”

She looked surprised a second before she lifted the fingers of one hand to her ear and muttered, “Thanks.”

“Did you get them recently? I mean, is there somewhere I could buy a pair?”

She studied me for a moment before saying, “Yeah, down the street, I got ‘em a year ago but they carry ‘em all the time.”

“Thanks,” I smiled at her.

“Sarah, this is Nina,” Max told her and she nodded to me.

“Hey, Nina.”

“Hi.”

“It’s called Karma,” she told me.

“What?”

“The silver place. They got other good stuff too. Karma.”

“Karma. Thanks,” I said again.

“No probs,” she replied then turned and walked away.

Before I knew what was happening, Max maneuvered me into the booth before I could take off my coat or purse. And again before I knew what was happening, he sat down in my side.

“Max,” I said but he wasn’t listening, he was shrugging off his coat, his arm bumping into me twice as he did so. Then he threw it over the table to the opposite bench, turned to me and said, “Coat.”

I pressed back into the corner, pulled the purse off my arm, Max took it from me, threw it over the table and it landed on his coat. I watched it sail then I watched it land.

“You just threw my purse,” I informed him.

“Yeah,” he replied then demanded, “Coat.”

I stared at him a second, deciding that fighting about taking off my coat and the fact that I’d rather he not sit by me but across from me would keep me from dinner. Therefore, still pressed into the corner, I shrugged off my coat. He took it and threw that too.

Obviously a gentleman.

“Max –”

He twisted, leaned toward me, put one forearm on the table, the other arm on the back of the booth and considering his sudden proximity, the sheer size of his frame, the effect of his clear, gray eyes on me and the fact I was pinned in a corner, I stopped talking.

“Tell me, Duchess, how does an American come to sound like you?”

I stared at him another second then murmured, “It’s a long story.”

He looked over his shoulder at the restaurant, turned back to me and noted, “This ain’t fast food.”

“That’s too bad, considering I’m hungry.”

“So, the American passport and the English accent?” he prompted, ignoring my comment.

“In England, they say I have an American accent,” I informed him.

“They’d be wrong.”

“Actually, they’re right.”

He shook his head. “You aren’t answering my question.”

I sighed then I said, “I’ve lived there for awhile.”

“How long?”

“Long enough, evidently, to pick up a hint of an accent.”

“A hint?”

“Yes.”

“More than a hint, babe.”

I shrugged, looked at the table and gave in. “If you say so.” Then I arranged the placemats and silverware, one for him, one for me, all the while I did this I tried not to think about how it felt, him calling me “babe”. Unfortunately, I failed not to think of this and decided it felt nice.

When I was done arranging the table for our dinner, he asked, “How old are you?”

My eyes shot to his and I told him, “That’s a rude question to ask a woman.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It just is.”

“You older than you look?”

“Probably.” Or at least I hoped so.

“Should I guess?”

I felt my body get stiff and I declared, “Absolutely not.”

He gave me a grin and got closer. “Give me a ballpark figure.”

“Older than Becca, younger than your mother,” I told him.

His hand not dangling from the table came up and touched my shoulder. I looked down to see my shirt had again slid off. I rearranged it so it covered my shoulder, his hand fell away and then I glared at him.

“That’s quite a range,” he commented and I shrugged then he said, “You look thirty,” well, that was good, “you act ninety.”

I stiffened then leaned toward him. “I don’t act ninety.”

“Honey, it was possible, I’d think you were born two centuries ago.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means you’re uptight.”

I leaned in closer and snapped, “I’m not uptight!”

He grinned again. “Totally uptight.”

“I’m not uptight,” I repeated.

“Don’t know what to make of you,” he said, his eyes moving down my torso to my lap and he finished with, “contradiction.”

“What does that mean?” I asked but I really shouldn’t have and I knew it.

His eyes came back to mine. “It means you look one way, you act another.”