They say the way to a manâs heart is through his stomach, but if you ask me, thatâs a load of bull. Hands down, that gold-lined path travels through his libido.
I should know. Right now, Iâm practically dying of embarrassment as I sit in a north Atlanta restaurant with the man of my dreams, Adam Hart. Iâm trying to look nonchalant beside him in our booth, sipping a margarita through a straw, while Adam has his hand between my legs. His fingers tickle my skin as they inch farther up my thighs.
âAdam,â I admonish playfully as his fingers skirt my panties. âIâm trying to have a serious conversation.â
âDonât I look serious to you?â
He does look seriousâwhich is exactly the problem. He is entirely too serious about this naughty bit of foreplay. âSweetheart, you know how much I love this, butââ
âWhat, this?â
My eyelids flutter as he strokes my nub.
âMmm,â I moan softly. Then look up in horror as the waiter appears at our table. My face flames, and I wonder if my pale brown skin registers any blush of my embarrassment. I squeeze my legs together, but that does nothing to stop Adamâs fingers.
âHave you decided what youâd like?â the waiter asks. Iâm not sure if thereâs a knowing glint in his eye. If not, he must think Adam and I are so in love that we canât bear to be physically apart from each other. Why else would we be sharing the same side of a booth, practically glued at the hip?
âUm,â I begin. I havenât even looked at the menu. âI think we need a few more minutes.â
âI know what I want,â Adam says. Heâs looking at me though, not at the waiter, and I want to smack him. No, thatâs a lie. I want to take him outside and get busy with him in the back seat of his Mercedes SUV. I really do enjoy Adamâs obvious lust for me. Iâm just not comfortable with how much he likes to display it in public.
âNew York steak,â Adam continues. âRare. I like it red.â
âIâll have the same,â I say, hoping to hell that Iâm not blushing. âMedium well.â
âRice or baked potato?â
âRice,â both Adam and I respond.
The waiter scribbles notes on a pad. âThat comes with soup or saladââ
âTwo house salads to start,â I interject, cutting off the waiter. âAnd an order of garlic bread. Also, a half liter of Chardonnay.â
âMake it a bottle,â Adam says.
My eyes meet his in surprise. His gaze is smoky, and as he bites down on his bottom lip, I feel an excited shiver dance across my shoulders. I know what he wants. To get me drunk so Iâm more likely to be less inhibited.
I wonder what he wants me to try this time.
âThatâs everything?â the waiter asks.
I have all but forgotten about the waiter. I look up at the college kid and grin. âThatâs plenty.â
Thank the Lord, the waiter turns and walks away. He doesnât know me, but still I let out a relieved breath. The reason I like to come here is that itâs far from the Buck-head neighborhood where Adam and I live. If I get caught doing something scandalous here, at least no one will know who I am. And because itâs a Monday night, this place isnât as busy as it would be on the weekend.
âNow.â Adam smiles at me as his fingers explore my nether region. âWhere were we?â
I push his hand away, feeling slightly annoyed at his one-track mind, considering everything we need to discuss. âAdam, seriously. We need to talk.â
He pouts a little but finally relents. âAll right.â He sits back against the booth. âLetâs talk.â
Now I smile from ear to ear. I am absolutely crazy about Adam, but itâs possible, if only slightly, that Iâm even more crazy about our upcoming wedding.
You see, Iâm almost thirty, and for a while I wasnât sure if Iâd ever get married or die a spinster. What self-respecting woman still uses the term spinster, you ask? You havenât met my high-society, Black-American Princess friends. Not to mention my mother, who has been dreaming of my wedding since the time I was in her womb. In most respects I have a fairly cushy life, but if I donât get married, Iâll never live that one down.
But I am getting married. In six weeks, I will become Mrs. Adam Hart. For the past year, Iâve been busy planning every detail of our lavish wedding. As far as Iâm concerned, itâs going to be the most spectacular wedding Atlanta society has ever seen.
Notice I didnât say âAdam and Iâ have been planning the wedding. Unfortunately, Adam is a manâwhich is to say that heâs not the least bit interested in the intricate details that go into pulling off a wedding as elaborate as ours will be. He thinks the big day is more of a fairy tale for the bride, and I canât say heâs wrong.
But I have to tell you, thereâs nothing remotely fun about planning the fairy-tale wedding. Itâs a lot of headaches and hard work. And there are things I need to know now, considering our big day is fast approaching.