Every dick in a room stopped for two chicks making out, after all.

Rob rolled his eyes at their antics and glanced over at his date. Judging from Marjorie’s shock, she had no idea what had prompted this action. He leaned in, trying to distract her. “Island girls are pretty forward, huh?”

She looked over at him and her mouth closed. She nodded and put her fork down. “I’ll say. My goodness gracious.” Twin spots of color flagged her cheeks and she grabbed the glass of wine and chugged it again.

He was about to tease Marjorie that her exclamation sounded like something his grandmother would say when someone walked up to the table. Oh hell. Rob looked up in vague annoyance to see the forward brunette standing at his side. Her red lipstick was smeared on her wet mouth, and up close, her lips looked over-plumped and injected with too much silicone.

“Just wanted to drop this off,” she said in a breathy voice, sliding a slip of paper with her phone number (or room number, depending on how forward she really was) toward his hand. She winked at him. “See you later . . . hopefully.” And she sauntered off, her hips swaying.

God damn it. Couldn’t a man eat his meal without being interrupted? He chewed angrily on a mouthful of lettuce, ignoring Marjorie’s shocked stare.

“Did you know her?” she asked. Her words were slightly slurred. Surely she couldn’t be drunk off of one glass of wine, could she?

“Nope. I can honestly say I’ve never met that girl.” Hundreds like her, yes. That one in particular? No.

“Is that her phone number?” she asked in a low, hurt voice. As he watched, she took another gulp of wine. A droplet or two ran off the corners of her mouth and landed on her cleavage.

He stared at those beads of glistening liquid, then shook himself. Fuck. This date was turning into a hot mess. He had to save this. He didn’t want the girl that had just left—chicks like her were a dime a dozen. He wanted the one across from him, the one that couldn’t hide what she was thinking if her life depended on it. The one that was currently getting drunk off of expensive wine because she was so nervous. So he grabbed his napkin and pried the lid off of the lantern at the table, revealing the small candle and flame within. He took the girl’s number without unfolding the paper and fed it to the candle.

Marjorie gave him a hesitant, confused smile. “Boy, they really are forward, aren’t they?”

“Indeed.”

***

By the time they got to dessert, Rob’s date was plastered. Marjorie had downed half of the bottle of wine and was currently staring at him with a dopey, glassy-eyed expression, her chin resting on her fists. The angle of her arms made her small tits sit right on the tabletop, and the deep cleavage of her dress made them practically spill out.

And still, Rob didn’t look. Christ, it was hard being a gentleman. He even glared at their waiter when he hovered over Marjorie for too long, daring the man to take one look in that direction and he’d get no tip whatsoever.

“So what are you thinking, Marjorie?”

That silly smile on her face grew wider. “That you’re so pretty.”

He gave her a faint smile. “That so?”

“Yeah,” she said dreamily, gazing at him. “I never dated anyone quite so pretty as you.”

He was going to retort that men weren’t really pretty, but the conversation was heading in a much more interesting direction. “And do you date a lot?” he asked.

“All the time,” she said, and then shook her head, contradicting her words.

He frowned. He understood a girl getting a little drunk on a date, especially if she was as nervous as Marjorie. But she was past tipsy and well into plastered. “You want to eat some bread or something?”

“Nope, I’m good.” She reached for her wine again.

He reached over and switched her glass to water.

***

The rest of dinner was a mess, in Rob’s opinion. They chatted and laughed about simple, easy topics, like the weather, the resort, and the size of the portions of the overpriced but tasty food. Sometimes, Marjorie was cute as a button. She’d laugh at all his jokes, throw in a few corny ones of her own . . . and then would ruin it by chugging more wine. It was baffling. It was frustrating, too, because there were glimmers of greatness in their date, only to be ruined by drunken giggling or a dopey, glazed look from his date.

And Rob dealt with enough drunks in his day to day work. He sure didn’t want his date acting like one. So he rushed them through dinner, hoping it’d stop her from drinking so much wine, and practically snatched the bill up when it came time to pay.

She reached for it, too. “We should go halvsies.”

“I’m not a cheap fuck.”

She gave him a prim look, and then giggled into her wine. “I can pay my own.”

Yeah right. He knew how much she made a year. “Again, I’m not a cheap fuck.”

“All right,” she said, smiling happily over her glass of wine. “Just do me a favor and tip him well. He did a good job and they’re short-handed.”

That observation surprised him. “How can you tell?”

She nodded as the waiter sailed past them, carrying a pitcher of water. “He’s got two sections, and the other one’s clear across the restaurant. He’s having to hustle tonight, so I’m guessing that he’s covering for someone.” She gave him a little smile. “I told you I was a waitress, right?”

“Nope. You didn’t.” His assistant had told him that, though.

“Yeah. Nothing fancy here.” She shrugged. “Been meaning to go back to college, but I took a semester off and just never went back.”

Rob glanced down at the thirty-dollar tip he’d left and added a 2 in front of it on the receipt, then showed it to Marjorie. “That okay?”

He expected her to protest, being so incredibly stingy when it came to the food, but her eyes lit up and she positively beamed at him, regarding him like he was a fucking hero. “That’s so wonderful, Rob. You’ll make his night worth it.”

“If that’s the look I get, I’ll add another digit in front of it,” he said, taking the receipt back.

Laughing, she smacked his hand. “Don’t!”

He nodded at the nearby dance floor. “Now that we’ve eaten, want to dance a little?”

To his surprise, the open expression on her face cooled and she shook her head.

“Why not?” She’d been giving the dance floor little covert glances all throughout dinner, and he figured most women loved to dance. “I’m not totally fu—uh, terrible. Just mostly terrible.”

She smiled. “It’s not you. It’s me.” She pushed a leg up one side of the table. “I’ll tower over you. People’ll stare.”

That was all it was? “Let them stare.” But when she shook her head again and crossed her arms over her chest, he wondered about her ugly shoes. The night she’d gotten out of the cab with her friends, she’d been wearing a pair of classy high heels. Tonight, with him, she was wearing ugly black flats. “Is this why you’re wearing those shoes? So you aren’t quite so tall?”

She licked her lips and said nothing.

“So you’re tall! So fucking what?”

Her eyes widened.

He mentally cursed himself for slipping a four-letter word in there. “What I meant to say was that it’s not a big deal.”

“I’m taller than most men.”

“I’m smarter than most men. You think that’s bringing me down?”

She just gave him a look.

“You’re an amazon,” he agreed. “There’s no hiding that.”

The look on her face grew hurt, and he had a vague feeling like he’d kicked a puppy.

“Let me tell you something,” he said, leaning in. “If they have a problem with you being taller than your date, that’s their issue, not yours. Your legs are gorgeous and they look amazing in heels, and I’m a selfish enough guy to insist that you wear something that makes you look great. And if you’re taller than me, so what? I’m secure enough in my masculinity to not give a . . . a . . .” Hell, he couldn’t think of something that wasn’t vulgar. Give a fuck? Give a shit? Give a rat’s ass?