jolted by awareness and a massive case of nerves.
“Do you eat meat?” he asked. “I couldn’t remember if I’d ever seen you eat any. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
She laughed. “No. I eat meat.”
“Good. We’re going to a terrific steak place. Buchanans. It’s one of my favorites. They have great food.”
“Sounds perfect.”
They talked about Amy and the bakery on the drive to the restaurant. Wyatt pulled up in front of the valet sign and handed over the keys, then came around and opened her door. Once they were inside, he told the hostess they had reservations.
Claire liked that he’d planned their evening together. She also liked the restaurant. It was intimate, all rich woods and leather booths. It was atmospheric without being dark, and elegant without being intimidating.
They were shown to a booth in the corner. After they’d slid onto their seats, the hostess put their menus on the table, along with the wine list, then left.
“You look good,” Wyatt said.
Claire paused in the act of reaching for her menu. “Ah, thank you.” She felt heat on her cheeks and was grateful for the subtle lighting. “Thanks for asking me out. This is really fun.”
“Don’t you want to wait until the evening is over to decide that?”
She smiled. “I don’t have to.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Good.”
The blush turned into a glow.
Wyatt didn’t need to look at the menu. He’d been to Buchanan’s enough times to know what he liked. But he enjoyed watching Claire study the selections. She looked intense, as if her decision had consequences.
He still hadn’t decided if asking her out had been smart or not. He was attracted to her, she was single and sexy as hell. Dating made sense.
Except she was Nicole’s sister and no one he would normally meet, let alone get involved with. A few minutes on the Internet had produced more information on Claire Keyes than he’d expected. She was famous, revered and adored on every continent she’d visited. Critics loved her, fans worshipped her and she’d had multiple bestselling CDs. He was a guy who built houses in Seattle. What was wrong with this picture?
“Would you like to order a bottle of wine?” he asked, refusing to talk himself out of the evening before it had even begun.
“That would be great. Do you—”
Just then a man in a tux walked over to their table. “Good evening. I am Marcellin, your sommelier. I heard you mention wine and my ears perked up. May I offer some assistance?”
He had a French accent that sounded so perfect, Wyatt wondered if it was fake. Before he could decide whether or not to use Marcellin’s services, Claire began speaking to him. In French.
They chatted for a few minutes, before Marcellin excused himself. Claire turned to Wyatt.
“Sorry. I got carried away.”
“No problem. You two know each other?”
She smiled. “I’m into wine, so I was asking about their wine list.”
“You speak French.”
Her eyes widened as if she hadn’t realized she’d slipped into the other language. “Um, a little.”
It sounded like more than a little to him.
“Sometimes I would listen to language CDs on flights. It helps pass the time. Then I get to practice when I’m in that country.”
“So it’s more than French.”
“I speak Italian, a little German. I tried Mandarin, but I so don’t have the ear.” She shifted in her seat as if she was uncomfortable. “It’s not a big deal. Anyway, the wine list is very impressive. A lot of good Washington wines. I like to try local when I’m somewhere, both food and wine. I always order a glass of something regional with my room service dinner.”
“Room service? You’re not out partying every night?”
“Not even close. After a performance, I’m usually exhausted. I go back to the hotel where I eat something light, try to unwind, then go to bed. Occasionally there are dinners with patrons. Those aren’t as fun as they sound. I have to be totally on, which is its own kind of tiring.”
He knew nothing about her or her world, he thought. A few articles on the Internet and Nicole’s dismissive comments hadn’t prepared him for Claire. As she talked about life on tour, he realized he’d asked a world-famous pianist to be his babysitter.
“Who are you?” he asked, without meaning to speak the question aloud.
“What?”
“You don’t belong here. In the real world.”
“But I like the real world. That other place isn’t very fun.”
He couldn’t begin to understand her life. What it would be like to go from city to city, performing at a level only a handful of people could reach.
“I want to fit in,” she added. “I’m trying to be like everyone else.”
“Don’t lower your standards.”
“I don’t think I’m better. I’m just different. I want to be less different.”
She was beautiful, he thought absently. When had she gotten so beautiful? Amy said she looked like Barbie. He was willing to admit she had the long blond hair and even longer legs, but there was little about her that reminded him of a girl’s toy. She was all woman and he liked that. He liked her. When had she stopped being the evil ice princess?
“Why don’t you order the wine,” he said. “Go crazy. We’ll both try something new.”
She smiled with obvious delight. “Are you sure? I can be very free with money.”
“I’m good.”
Marcellin returned and they had a lengthy discussion in French about different wines. Claire flipped pages in the wine book and pointed. Finally they agreed on a local boutique winery he’d never heard of. The waiter appeared and they ordered their dinner. When they were finally alone, she leaned toward him and smiled.
“Did I already thank you for asking me out?”
There was something about that smile—an invitation that made him want to lean close and kiss her. He’d liked kissing Claire. He wouldn’t mind doing a lot more. But a nagging voice in the back of his mind reminded him that he had to make sure they were playing by the same rules.
“You did.”
The
