every anecdote, every lift of excitement in his strong baritone voice, she liked him more and more.
In fact, her body was having a little fiesta all its own, complete with fireworks that lit her up from the blush on her cheeks to the pressure between her legs. Mr. Crawford had started out the evening being good-looking, but now he was attractive.
Maybe ordering more drinks had been a mistake. Still, when was the last time she’d been so caught up in a conversation? She’d hardly given a thought to the busy day she had tomorrow.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I get carried away talking about the brewery. I’d much rather hear about how you managed to become a master sommelier and a master of wine when you’re barely old enough to drink.”
“You charmer. I’m twenty-seven. And I’m not a master of wine yet. I still have my dissertation to finish before I can claim that title.”
“Not the point. I’m no expert, but I know what it takes to get that far. And, what, are you the youngest master sommelier ever?”
“One of. I started early. I had two terrific mentors, both deeply involved in the business, to help me along. Simone grew up at her family’s vineyard in France, and Phillip is also a master of wine and runs a very successful international wine distribution company. I happen to love the taste and I have a decent nose and palate, so they took me under their wing. With their support, I got lucky.”
“I don’t believe luck had anything to do with it. You must have worked your ass off.”
She didn’t reply, but she couldn’t hide her smile. “What about you? How did you get into beer? You mentioned the pub belongs to your dad?”
“The bar was originally my grandfather’s. He bought it in the 1960s. But you couldn’t distill and distribute alcoholic beverages in Queens until 2007, so my father was into home brewing. And yes, he sold some of that from the house, but don’t tell anyone. I got involved when I was a kid, a few years after my mom died. Brewing beer became a thing for me and my dad to do together.”
“I’m sorry about your mom, but that’s very sweet.”
“It was good. It still is. I got more into the chemistry of it all, but he understood beer on an intuitive level. He still does. We work well together.”
“So the whole family takes part?”
“Not all of us. A couple of years ago Ruby got a job as an assistant coach for the Indiana Fever women’s basketball team. But the rest of us do. You’ve met Emmy. She works at the bar part-time. There’s also Amber and Jade.”
“Nice. How come you’re not Silver or, I don’t know, Sterling?”
“Now, that’s where luck really does play a part. My sisters got to name me, and they were in love with Cameron Crowe movies. It was a close call, though. They almost named me Lloyd Dobler.”
That made her laugh. How prescient were his sisters? Cameron didn’t look like John Cusack in Say Anything..., but he possessed that same sincerity that made every girl who’d ever watched the movie fall in love with his character. “It wouldn’t have been terrible to be named Lloyd.”
“Yes, it would have. I already got enough grief for not being into sports like my sisters, all of whom are older and incredibly coordinated. I didn’t need a weirder name than I already have.”
“Cam is very butch,” she said. “Like something from a car.”
He flexed his arm, showing off a good-sized bulge. “That’s me, all right. I wear only muscle shirts to work, even when it’s ten below outside.”
Laughing again, Molly was surprised to find they were both finished with their meals. Which meant she’d get to drag him to her apartment and ravish him until neither of them could move.
He raised his hand to signal the waitress, and that was when it hit her. She couldn’t have sex with Cameron Crawford.
It would ruin everything.
LETTING MOLLY PAY the bill wasn’t easy. He’d been raised by fiercely independent women, strong in all kinds of ways and highly opinionated. But in the back of his mind, he heard his father’s voice telling him that there was nothing wrong with a little chivalry.
“Are you sure?” he asked before the waitress returned. “You had to do the scary part, so I should pay.”
“Are you saying that every time you’ve asked a woman out, she’s footed the bill?”
He grinned. “You’re too clever for your own good. You could have made out like a bandit.”
Molly shook her head. “You’ll notice we didn’t go to your favorite restaurant. Besides, I don’t think the rules are so set anymore. Not like they used to be.”
The waitress took the bill folder and his last chance to pay. At least for this meal. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t I get the cab?”
Molly’s lips parted and she blinked. “Um...”
“Oh. Damn. Sorry. I didn’t mean... That was presumptuous, but not intentional. The cab could just be for you. Even if you live in Connecticut, I don’t mind.” He folded his napkin again, this time putting it on top of his plate instead of on the table. But he had to look at her eventually. When he did, she was smiling. Kind of. Not that big infectious grin he’d seen earlier, but something tighter.
“It’s okay. I was thinking about inviting you over for coffee, but I live all the way in Bensonhurst, and I have a terrible apartment and no milk, in case you like milk. In your coffee.”
He congratulated himself on turning what had been a relaxed and easy conversation into an awkward mess. “I don’t take milk in my coffee, thanks, so we’re good. So, Bensonhurst, huh? I haven’t been to Little Italy, but I have gone to Chinatown. Do you live near there?”
She nodded, but he was reasonably sure she was still troubled by his assumption. “I have cookies, too. They’re just packaged, nothing fancy.”
Maybe not that troubled. “I’m not fancy, either. You ready to go?”
She led him through the restaurant as he tried to figure out his next move. He wanted to go to her place. But he’d misconstrued what he’d thought had been a solid green light. Coffee could mean coffee or it could mean sex. He didn’t think cookies meant anything but cookies. The only thing to do was let things play out. By the time they got to her place, he’d know what to do.
At almost nine, the August heat was still oppressive. The humid air settled over him like a wet dishrag. There were so many people on the street who looked as if they were partially melted. But not Molly.
It had to be starch that kept her blouse from wilting. He’d never given starch a thought, outside of its chemical properties, but now he wanted to touch her shirt, see if it felt stiff or soft.
Instead, he stepped off the curb and threw his arm up. He wasn’t the only one. Despite the subway station nearby, people wanted cabs, preferably with air-conditioning.
A brush of fingers on his bare arm startled him. He leaned toward her so he could hear her against all the traffic noise.
“Sorry,” she said.
He dropped his arm. “Oh—”
“No, not like that. I was going to say something, but I lost the thread. It’ll come back to me.”
“Sure. Okay.”
She smiled. Then she lifted her arm as she turned her attention to the stream of traffic. Not five seconds later, a yellow taxi stopped.
Inside, the cab smelled fresh and felt cool. Molly gave the driver her address, and they both settled in the back,