The poor man blinked. Looked behind him as if someone were going to give him the answers. Dalton sat back in his chair to watch the entertainment. “Umm, yes, we use fresh watermelon. I’m almost sure. I can check with the bartender.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Her finger jabbed the second item on the list. “The Malibu cocktail. It looks like you’re making it with peach schnapps, but would you make it with melon liqueur instead and switch out the cranberry juice to sparkling?”
The waiter swallowed, scratching notes in his pad. “Yes, of course. Umm, do you want to order any appetizers?”
“Not yet. The red berry sangria. Do you use Cabernet or Merlot? Is the base made with blackberries or currants or another berry—the menu doesn’t seem to specify?”
“I, umm, let me get the bartender to check on this.”
“Thank you, you’re being so helpful.” Raven gave him a knee-buckling smile that caused the poor guy’s brain to short-circuit. He just stared at her, happy to be basking in the compliment. “Once those questions are answered, I can make my decision on a cocktail. In the meantime, can you bring me an order of crab cakes—is the aioli sauce house-made?”
Relief crossed his features. “Yes!”
“Wonderful. I’ll also have a shrimp cocktail. What about the sauce for that?”
He scrunched up his face. “House-made, too.”
“Excellent. And water, please.”
Dalton lifted his finger. “One Raging Bitch and a bucket of oysters. That’s it for me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The waiter hurried away. Dalton shook his head slowly and gave a long sigh.
“What?” Her voice dripped with accusation. “Do you have a problem with me making sure I get what I like?”
He leaned in and growled. “No, darlin’. I’m a big advocate of you getting exactly what you like. Any time. Any place.”
This time, he was prepared for the lightning-quick heat that surged between them. She stiffened as if trying to fight it but didn’t drop her gaze. He was kinda crazy about her. “Glad to hear it. ’Cause what I want is a good cocktail that surprises me. Right here. Right now.”
“You just let me know if there’s anything else you want, and I’ll make sure you get it.”
She snorted.
The bartender came over, and Dalton watched while she peppered him with knowledgeable questions, and he looked like he had no idea he’d be grilled with a bartending final exam. Finally she seemed satisfied, and he asked her what she’d like to drink.
“All of them.”
The bartender stared at her. “You’d like three cocktails?”
“Yes. Oh, and throw in a champagne cocktail, please.”
“Well, we don’t have those on the menu.”
She cocked her head in challenge. “Then make one yourself and surprise me. You can do that, right?”
He stuttered, nodded, and left as quickly as the waiter had.
Dalton tapped his finger on the table. “I’m assuming you don’t come here much?” he asked.
“No. I think they’re overpriced and too crowded, but it’s probably a good time to test out their food and drinks.”
His lip twitched. “You know they’ll probably put your picture up like a most wanted sign and refuse you future entry?”
Her smile was nasty and he loved every part of it. “I don’t think they’re smart enough.”
He laughed. “I like your style.”
He kept up casual chatter until the waiter returned with a platter full of cocktails and Dalton’s sole beer. She lined all the cocktails up before her and began a series of taste tests. Closing her eyes, she let each flavor linger on her tongue and then slowly slide down her throat. Depending on the result, her face revealed either a slight frown, a pucker of her lips, or a serene satisfaction. Dalton’s jeans tightened around his growing erection, imagining how those lips would wrap around his own anatomy. Imagining how he’d dive deep into her and wrest that expression of sublime pleasure just for him.
“Sweet Hot Chris is so much better,” she declared, popping her eyes open. Her fingers clasped the stem of the champagne cocktail glass.
“That sounds pornographic. A former lover?” he asked. He tried to act nonchalant, but the image of her with another guy bothered him, which was completely ridiculous and out of character.
“Oh, I wish.” She sighed, licking her lips. “I named it on behalf of all the Chrises. Chris Pine, Chris Pratt, Chris Hemsworth, Chris Evans . . .”
“Ah, I get it. But I don’t think they’re the marrying kind.”
Her dark eyes filled with laughter at his pointed jab. “I can make an exception,” she drawled.
He swept his gaze over her body, then settled back on her face. He didn’t need to see her nipples tightening under her thin tank or smell her arousal. It was becoming the norm between them—the underlying heat simmering every minute. “Good to know.”
She was saved from responding by the delivery of their food. He dove into the sharp scent and taste of oysters, squeezing lemon and enjoying the salty flavor. “So, I’ve been dying to ask you a question.”
“No, I won’t sleep with you.”
“What if we got married?” She choked on her crab cake, and Dalton laughed. Oh, her face was priceless and worth the impulse. “Is that a no?”
She wiped her mouth and glared. “Very funny. I doubt you’d marry someone just to score. What freaked you out about long-term relationships, anyway? Were your parents divorced?”
Of course, the question was casual, but it was like a missile launched into too much hidden pain. Many times he’d believed his parents should have divorced. He’d known for a long time his mother had been unhappy, and that his father had changed into a cold, domineering man swept up in all aspects of the business and success. Was that why she’d run away? Hadn’t she known her sons would stand by her if she had decided to divorce? Was she so desperate to be free she considered them her captors, too?
“Dalton?”
His name fell from her lips whisper soft. Goose bumps broke out on his arms. “Sorry. No, my parents weren’t divorced. But they weren’t happy.” He dragged in a breath. “In my opinion, things would’ve been better if they had split up.”
“Did they fight a lot?”
He expected to shut down at the small probe. Instead, he found himself answering. “Yes, but it was more than that. I think the silence was the worst. Maybe if they’d fought more, there’d have been communication. My father wasn’t an easy person to live with. After a while, I could tell my mother got tired of trying to make him happy. When she stopped, he shut down even more, and they just became roommates raising three sons.”
“Were you close to your brothers?”
“Very. Sure, we fought and competed, but underneath it all we were tight.”
“And your mom? Were you—were you close to her?”
The question was phrased tentatively, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to know his answer. Was she thinking about losing her own mother? Again, the truth came out before he could think about it. “Yes. We were very close. She was . . . everything.”
Pain flashed in her eyes, and then she nodded, dropping her head. They ate without speaking, and once again, he respected the way she didn’t need to fill silence with inane chatter. She was a woman who appreciated the impact of quiet.
“My parents were happy,” she finally said. “I was young when we lost Mom to breast cancer. Don’t remember much about her, except her scent. Papa said she liked to bake cookies. The smell of cookie dough and sugar makes me happy.”
He knew how hard it was for him. Was it worse to never even have known your mother? To only rely on other people’s stories or pictures to create a world you never got to share? “My mom liked to cook, too. Used to let me help in the kitchen a lot, and didn’t care about the mess I made. Unfortunately, I inherited no skill.”
Raven smiled and wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, I suck at baking, too. My cakes fall flat, and my cookies are always underdone.”