Free Collide by Gail McHugh Page A

linen-draped table, he reached for her hand, smoothing the pad of his thumb along her knuckles. “You really have no idea how beautiful you are,” he remarked, inclining his body ever so subtly over the table.
    “Oh, you’re really trying your hardest to get some tonight.”
    Chuckling, he held her hand tighter. “Touché. I already know that I’m getting some—willing or unwilling on your part.”
    Emily shook her head and laughed. “You’re in a very frisky mood right now.”
    He shrugged and casually leaned back in his seat. “Yes, I am. But how could I not be?” he said, gesturing to her slightly exposed cleavage with his head. “Although, I must say, I wish you would wear something that covered you up a little more.”
    Emily adjusted the straps of her dress, pulling it up higher on her chest. “Is it that bad?”
    “Well, I like to keep what’s mine to myself.” He cleared his throat and took a sip of wine. “Okay, let’s talk about something else before I take you right here on this table. So how was your day?”
    Not meeting his eyes, Emily traced the rim of her glass with two fingers. “It was okay.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “I feel self-conscious now, Dillon,” she replied, glancing around the patio.
    “Emily, I didn’t mean it like that.” He reached across the table and lifted her chin with one finger. Her eyes came to rest on his. “I just don’t like when other men stare. You look stunning, but like I said, you’re mine.”
    “Okay, I’ll pay more attention to what I wear from now on.” A faint smile tugged at her lips. “But, to be honest, I actually like when other women stare at you.”
    “Oh, do you?”
    “Yes, I do. I know you’re with me, and that’s all that matters.”
    “Well, you’re a woman, that’s why. Men have other things in mind when they stare like that.”
    Interrupting the conversation, the waiter arrived with another bottle of wine and two plates of Beef Wellington. The rest of the evening’s talk focused on Dillon taking Emily to do some sightseeing around the city. It was something that she had looked forward to since she had yet to do it—at least not with him.
    Picking up the empty plates, the waiter looked to Emily and handed her a dessert menu. His thick, French accent slid from his tongue. “The chef recommends the crème brûlée medley, consisting of chocolate, vanilla, and banana.”
    “That sounds good to me,” Emily replied, handing the menu back to him.
    The faint sound of an infant crying caught Dillon’s attention. He glanced at Emily. “That baby is driving me nuts. Do you really have to get dessert?”
    Emily sheepishly smiled, flicking her eyes in the direction of the couple who were trying to soothe the baby. “It’s just a baby, Dillon. And no, I don’t have to get dessert, but I want to.”
    Dillon’s head snapped up as he glared at the waiter. “Fine, bring her the medley. But is there a possibility of removing the people with the screaming child?”
    Emily’s smile fell.
    “I apologize, sir, but I’m not able to do that,” the waiter answered, noticeably uncomfortable by his request.
    Dillon’s eyes hardened on the man. “Surely there’s a manager that I could speak with then.”
    Stupefied at his remark, Emily interjected immediately. She looked up to the waiter. “Please, there’s no need to do that. You can just place it in a to-go box for me. Thank you.”
    “It may make for a mess in a to-go box, Miss. May I recommend our cheesecake if this will not be enjoyed here?”
    “Yes, that’s fine. And thank you again.”
    The waiter nodded and whisked off to the kitchen.
    Emily’s jaw dropped open as she yanked the napkin from her lap, tossing it on the table. “Jesus, Dillon, what the hell was that about?”
    He shifted in his chair, trying to drag his attention away from the couple and the now screaming baby. He rubbed his fingers against his temples. “I’m sorry. It was a long day at