They’d passed through a hallway next to the kitchen, and while the sweet tang of tomatoes and fragrant meats made her mouth water, it couldn’t compete with the intoxicating male spice of her dining companion. What in the name of all that was holy was she doing partaking of a late-night supper with Eli Cooper in what looked like a very romantic locale?

Strategy session, Eli had called it. They’d visited the Hawks locker room, where Alex had indulged in a spot of unabashed ogling—really to piss off her “date”—and had more photos taken. Eli had insisted on a debriefing about how the night had gone.

He pulled out a chair, so natch she walked around to the other side.

“Sit here,” he said, his fingers strumming the back of the chair.

Oh, he had been holding it for her. Surprise at his behavior dampened the spark of annoyance at his bossy tone. She walked back, but before she could sit, he started tugging at the shoulders of her parka. “Let me.”

She bit her lip, closed her eyes, and let him. With him standing so close, it was just as seductive as when he’d unzipped her jacket earlier on. More so. Because now he was behind her and there was something indelibly erotic about not being able to see him. Just feeling his breath hot on her neck, the ghost of his lips close enough to sin. If this was her reaction when he stripped off coats, how the hell would she not melt into a puddle if he moved to the next layer?

Which wasn’t happening.

He pushed in the chair as she sat and moved around to seat himself. All very date-like behavior . . . except no date had ever done that for her. There was danger in being impressed by a little chivalry. Just because Eli Cooper was polite to a woman did not make him any less of an enemy. He probably thought women with their pea-sized brains needed assistance with things like sitting and coat-doffing and . . . orgasms.

She bet he was really good at assisting in that area.

The server, an Italian woman with big, scary hair that Alex immediately empathized with, stopped by to take their drink order: a Glenlivet for Eli and a double Macallan eighteen year for Alex because it was expensive and the city of Chicago was buying. Alone at last, Eli stared at Alex for a long, skin-heating moment.

“I was right to insist you sit there. The light hits you perfectly.”

She swallowed around the lump the size of a bread roll in her throat. “Makes my hair look less frightening, I imagine.”

“Just highlights your natural beauty. You’re a very striking woman, Alexandra.”

She knew she wasn’t an ogre, but damn, it sent her stomach into a wriggle to hear him compliment her that way.

“No one’s listening, Mr. Mayor, so you can stow the sweet talk. Unless . . .” She looked over to the bar, where Eli’s security detail was sitting with a club soda, his eyes trained on the room, seeking out potential assassins. “Is there press here?”

“I doubt it, except for our citizenry, who are all press of a sort. If someone takes a photo and tweets it, then the night is a success.”

The pleasant wriggle in her gut turned uneasy. She was pretty sure she didn’t want her family or friends to get the wrong idea, especially as the wrong idea was so, so appealing.

“What about Thing? Does he get to eat?”

“Thing?”

“Craggy Face over at the bar.”

He smiled and pop! all hail the devastating dimple. “Hush, you’ll hurt his feelings. He has to go where I go, but ravioli would dull his reflexes.”

“Sounds like his presence might dull your love life.”

He laughed, and the sound nearly gave her a mini-orgasm on the spot. “Most women like the idea. It makes them feel important to be with a man who needs that kind of protection. So, speaking of love lives . . .”

“Were we?” She plucked a piece of focaccia from the basket and dipped it into an herbed olive oil.

“Tell me more about these miserable dates you’ve been going on.”

Miserable? Her cheeks flamed, remembering that Eli had been there a week ago when Michael Martinez dumped her in front of a roomful of watchful diners. Had the mayor been one of the rubbernecking observers? The memory of the detective flinching as she leaned in to brush her lips across his cheek still stung.

They say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. At this rate she should be able to bench-press a Buick.

“You do not want to hear about my dating adventures.”

“What else are we going to talk about? Firefighters’ underfunded pensions? Our diametrically opposed viewpoints on whether a man should pull a chair from the table for a woman? I’d like to enjoy my meal, thanks.” He arched the mayoral eyebrow. “Tell me about your worst date.”

Well, there was the orgasmless one-night stand against the jukebox in her family’s bar a few months ago, but calling it a date was probably overstating it.

“Three words: spoken-word jazz.”

He chuckled. “And the best?”

This one. A conclusion that was so sad she should just go home now and drown herself in the kitchen sink.

“Clearly none, because I’m still looking.”

His eyes twinkled dangerously. The man was so handsome it tore at her lungs. “So how many men have you marauded your way through in the last year?”

Her swallow was audible. “Not seeing how that’s relevant.”

“Alexandra.” Spoken in that commanding tone that made her . . . oh, God, she was starting to love how he said her name.

“I’ve only begun putting in the effort lately. Online dating. Tinder, that kind of thing.”

“How many?”

“Thirty-four in ten months.”

Sexy lip twitch. “How many were second dates?”

Her silence was thunderously embarrassing. “I know!” she finally said after three seconds that felt like three hours. “You think I’m a freak.”

“Asked and answered long ago. Are you trying to win a bet?”

She tore the bread apart, needing to do something with her hands. “I’m just optimistic enough to believe that there’s someone for everyone, even an undateable weirdo like me. And if I cast my net wide enough, I’ll find it.”

It wasn’t as if she’d never had a boyfriend. After college, she was all loved up with Justin, who thought her firefighter fantasy was “cute.” During her three-year wait to get the call for CFD, she had worked as an EMT and racked up a shit ton of experience dealing with machete-wielding meth tweakers and bug-eyed violent winos. But Justin couldn’t handle it, and she couldn’t handle his suffocating concern. After she showed up for a date with a black eye sustained during a tricky run, it was adios, Justin.

She shoved a piece of bread into her mouth. “I even thought that this fake dating setup might put me in a different circle. Get me moving and shaking with better-quality talent.”

He frowned. “Politicians, aldermen, lawyers.”

“Baseball, basketball, hockey.” Feeling playful, but mostly needing to assert some measure of control over this awkward conversation, she peeked at him from beneath the veil of her lashes. “I like the idea of my kids being bilingual.”

The frown deepened. “For God’s sake, Dempsey.”

“What, is Bastian gay? Married? A nose picker?”

“He’s Canadian. Now, don’t get me wrong, some great things have come out of Canada. William Shatner, Leonard Cohen—”

“Bastian Durand.”

“Poutine, Nathan Fillion,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

“You like Firefly?” He probably knew Nathan Fillion from Castle instead of from the greatest science-fiction TV show ever created.

“Only idiots don’t like Firefly, Alexandra. Canadians are also excellent at managing snow, but Durand is not your standard peace-and-ice-loving Canadian, he’s French Canadian. The Maple Leaf Frenchies add an extra layer of snooty with their smug.”

She rolled her eyes. “He wasn’t snooty or smug, he was interesting. He’s got a lovely smize.”