J.C. Frost watched the disappointment on the cute little spitfire's face and it touched something in him. She'd argued so convincingly. She just knew that reservation was hers, or was it that she wanted a table so bad she'd pretend her name was J.C. too? Before he could stop himself, he waved the hostess to wait.
He turned to Jaycee. "Hey, uh, you want to just share a table with me? I mean, obviously, they've screwed up the reservations."
"Sir, we had one reservation for J.C. Frost, so when she called and came in we simply confirmed we had it," the hostess tried to explain from behind him.
Like he gave a damn why they screwed up the reservation. He didn't even acknowledge the woman's babbling. His attention had been snagged by the curvy, petite African-American woman who shared his initials.
"So, you coming to eat with me or what?" he asked. He didn't want to force her, pressure her to share a table with him. Women did battle to sit at a table with him, so he damn sure wasn't going to beg this one.
But he really wanted her to come. She intrigued him in a way he hadn't seen in a woman before. His tailored suit, Brooks Brothers trench coat, and fine leather gloves didn't stop her from arguing with him. The fact that he stood a foot taller, and absolutely was in the right, didn't stop her.
And she intrigued him, made him want to know more. Spunk and fire burned in her round, maple-brown eyes. It seared inside of his mind, successfully tattooing her impression there for all time. He wouldn't forget this little interaction with the saucy woman.
But damn if he was going to tell her.
And he sure as hell wouldn't mind extending his time with her. Who knew what sort of splendid entertainment she'd provide. He didn't like eating alone anyway.
"Yeah, okay," she said, accepting his invitation to share a table.