Loyal Lawyer by Lauren Runow

Chapter Five

It’s a brisk evening as we walk to the bar. With the beginning of spring, warm days are here, but the nights can still bear a winter chill. Like a true gentleman, Sebastian offers me his coat, and I accept with a shy smile, knowing he has his suit jacket underneath.

Though our conversation flows easily, I start to wonder where we’re going after about fifteen minutes of walking, and I’m surprised when we stop outside McGillin’s Olde Ale House. Beer has been pouring in this tavern since 1860, shortly after the Liberty Bell was cracked.

“I can’t tell if you’re impressed or disappointed,” Sebastian comments as he holds the door open for me to enter.

“Pleasantly surprised,” I chide as I walk by. “I love this place. It has so much charm.”

The brick walls are adorned with paraphernalia of the bar’s history from liquor licenses to old photographs and a sign from the old Wanamaker’s Department Store that used to be nearby.

The place is packed, so the waitress waves us through the crowd to a small table near the back. We order craft beers and settle in after Sebastian removes his suit coat. I stand to do the same when I realize I’m still wearing his jacket.

“Thank you for letting me borrow this.” I hand it back to him.

“Are you sure you don’t still need it?”

“It’s okay. I’m sure I’ll warm up real quick in here.” Both with how many people are here and getting to stare at you for the next hour or so.

We sit, and he instantly rolls his sleeves back up. Seeing those forearms bare with his muscular flesh on display definitely heats me right up.

A gentleman’s arms aren’t given nearly enough attention. You can tell a lot about a man with one quick glance. Smooth skin shows outer care while corded forearms declare he treats his inside equally well. He has home-gym arms, curled and toned but not bulky. He has no creases in his shirt, except at the elbows, as would someone who has his shirts professionally cared for. The rolled-up sleeves show a laid-back confidence, but it’s how they’re folded in an even, precise manner, as if he needs to be able to roll them down to pristine perfection with ease. He appears ambitious and dedicated to his work. And the thought of those arms wrapped around you on a cold March night is just damn sexy.

Our beers arrive quickly, so I take a sip and try to rid my mind of all thoughts of cuddling and forearms and flesh.

“Did you know McGillin’s is the most romantic place in Philadelphia?” I muse.

He looks around with a grin as he leans forward. “I thought you’d get a kick out of the history, but I didn’t think of it as romantic.”

“Oh, but it is. More couples have met, become engaged, and even gotten married here than any other place in Philadelphia.”

He leans closer in a flirtatious way. “Given how old it is, the odds work in its favor.”

“True. I can only imagine the amount of booze that has been drunk within these walls. I suppose, too, that most people find their soul mates over a couple of drinks.”

He laughs. It’s thick and rich, like dark chocolate mousse. “You’re a true romantic, aren’t you, Amy Morgana?”

I blush a little. “You’re not incorrect. I do love a good romantic comedy, and I’d never refuse a walk on the beach.”

“Don’t forget chocolate,” he muses.

“Yes, chocolate. Eating a small morsel is a voluptuous experience. Even if you didn’t know it had aphrodisiac qualities, the flavor alone would make you feel romantic.”

He takes a sip of his beer and licks his lips. “Do you really believe chocolate makes you horny?”

“When the Spanish conquistadors arrived in modern-day Mexico City, they say Montezuma drank fifty cups of chocolate a day and he had a harem of fifty women. They assumed the chocolate must have increased his stamina.”

He raises his brows in amusement. “Meaning … it was the original Viagra.”

I laugh and almost spit out my drink. “It must have been—or so the conquistadors thought. They returned to Europe with cacao, where it immediately caught on as an aphrodisiac and a luxury that was tightly controlled. I mean, they couldn’t have lust-filled peasants running amok.”

“That would have been a travesty,” he jokes, acting very serious. “So, I take it, it was reserved for the aristocracy?”

“Bingo. Rumor has it, Marie Antoinette wouldn’t start her day without a cup of chocolate.” I take a long swallow and grin. “That chocolate was made with chile though, which was too spicy for Europeans or Americans. So, they replaced the chile with sugar to create what we know now as chocolate today.”

“Do you think the chile was the trick to it being an aphrodisiac?”

“If you ever want to try it, I can make a special batch in my kitchen.” My words come out far flirtier than I intended.

Based on Sebastian’s grin and the heat in his gaze, I’d say, my unintended comment just got a rather welcome reaction.

“Why chocolate?” he asks as his hand wraps around his pint glass. “Why did you choose it as your career?”

I blow out a breath and cross my legs, leaning into the table. “I guess it started when I was a kid on Valentine’s Day. My dad would buy each of us those heart-shaped boxes. You know, the red fabric kind. They were so pretty, and I loved having my special piece of heaven. The diagram was key. There’s nothing worse than biting into a disappointing flavor.”

He laughs. “I was the kid who took a bite out of every piece and only ate about five in the box.”

“Exactly!” I say rather excitedly. “As I got older, I found myself testing different brands, finding the flavors I enjoyed, and I learned fast that not all chocolate makers are alike.”

“Any favorites?”

“Godiva and Lindt. Prestat and Montezuma. Pierre Marcolini. Milène Jardine.”

“But you knew you could do better.” There’s a gleam in his eye that makes me smile.

“I hope I can. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. I’ve always admired the miniature artistic masterpieces that emerge from a box.”

He nods like he appreciates and understands my words. “Did you go to culinary school?”

“College wasn’t for me, so I decided to go learn from the ground up. I’ve worked in Paris and Belgium, New York and here, in Philadelphia.”

“Do you speak French?”

“Oui.”

“Azez-vous un café préféré à Paris?”

I bite my lip as I try to think of my favorite café in Paris, which is what he just asked. There was one, an impressive pastry cart with rich hot chocolate that was so thick that the spoon slowed with every stir.

“Les Deux Magots. Les déserts étaient magnifiques,” I reply and then add, “You speak French beautifully, by the way.”

“You’re kind, but I know it’s rusty. I’m better at Spanish. I learned French in high school and took Español in college. It comes in handy in my line of work more than French does.”

“What do you do when you’re not saving the world one wrong at a time? Impressionnant,” I say in French.

“I’m not the impressive one. You’re the one who has followed her dreams by traveling the world and running your own business. I’m captivated.”

“Do you mean, you’re more like shocked that the woman who texted you on accident, telling you off, isn’t a mental patient?”

“I told you, I wanted to see if you were as charming as I hoped.”

“You mean, crazy.”

“I mean, enrapturing. You, Amy, have surpassed everything I could have ever imagined you’d be. More than anything, I’m glad I offered to meet you for coffee the next day.”

His charm is impossible to shy away from. Sebastian Blake is easy on the eyes and easier to talk to.

“I know you run marathons and have Duke. What else makes you tick?”

“That’s like opening Pandora’s box.” He raises his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his beer.

“I still have half a drink, and I’m open to getting a second. I’m here for the box. Open the box, Sebastian.” I use my most jovial yet tempting voice.

“Okay. Well, I love documentaries and am an avid History Channel buff. If it’s a film, I’m a sucker for anything where someone has to overcome an obstacle. Rocky and Rudy being two of my favorites.”

“Rocky is a town legend. Even if he is fictional.”

“Don’t knock it. That movie is a classic. Plus, I might have taken a picture in front of the Rocky statue outside the museum.”

“That is the most charming thing about you.” I grin as I lean in a little closer.

“Okay, so that’s what you’re looking for? Anecdotes that aren’t so flattering?”

“Your buck-tooth story is the reason I hired you as my attorney,” I say with a shrug, not afraid to admit it.

“The can-opener story impressed you?”

“What can I say? I, too, am a sucker for someone who has to overcome an obstacle,” I use his words and mean every single one of them.

“More embarrassing things about me then …”

He grins, and it’s the cutest thing ever. If I wasn’t sure if this was a date or not, I definitely am now. His flirting is apparent and almost unnerving. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone be so obvious with their feelings toward me. I like it.

He continues, “I sprained my ankle last year, so my mother sent me one of those adult coloring books. It has profanity words engraved in lotus flowers and rainbows. I’ve definitely finished more pages than any man would care to admit. Is that charming?”

“Forget charming. That is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say with a chuckle.

“Then, this is going to drive you wild. I know how to sew.”

I place my hand on my chest and fake a sexual pant. “Do go on.”

“As an only child, my mother made me do everything with her. Sewing the holes in my socks was one of my chores. I happen to have a perfect stitch.” He shakes his head from side to side, acting hoity-toity.

I laugh but not at him. I’m laughing because I enjoy him. Sebastian is fun and sweet. His stories are cute, as is the way he smiles more on one side of his mouth than the other, showing off that dimple.

He calls the waitress over and gets us another round. We continue our talks and jokes. When I’m halfway through my second drink, I get the liquid courage to ask the question I’ve secretly been wanting to ask.

“How is a man as handsome, successful, and captivating as you single?”

“You think I’m captivating?”

I like that he called out that adjective instead of the others. He clearly knows how he looks in the mirror, and his reputation precedes him. But his personality … that is what makes him feel good.

“Devilishly charming. And swoonworthy. You have a way about you. Sorry if that comes off strong. I merely meant to pay you a compliment.”

“Don’t apologize. I love how authentic you are. You say what you feel.”

“Too much so sometimes, unfortunately.”

“Only because you asked, I’m recently single. I was seeing a woman, but we called it quits about three months ago. Our split was amicable though. It just didn’t work out. No love lost. I wish her the best, as I know she does me.”

“Couldn’t have been a long relationship.”

“About six months. But it wasn’t like what you had with Hardin. We dated and had fun, but the relationship ran its course. She said she wanted to see other people, and I was okay with letting her go.”

“That sounds so simple.”

“It is when you’re not in love.”

“Have you ever been in love before?”

“Yes. At least, I thought I was. We all do when we’re young. As you get older, you stop looking for the insta-love—lust that comes with an incredible high. I don’t want the kind of love that comes with conditions. Places we need to go and people we need to be with in order to be a couple. I work too hard in the office to have to work for my relationship image. I just want to meet someone I can sit at a table with, alone, have some drinks and great conversation, and even share a few laughs.”

“That sounds wonderful. But that sounds more like a friend.”

He shrugs. “Maybe that’s what I’m looking for. A woman who is my best friend, who lets me take her home when the sun goes down and ravage her in the bedroom until the sun comes up.”

My cheeks heat, and my belly tightens just as the waitress brings us the bill, breaking our little trance.

I look at my watch, suddenly more nervous than I should be. “It’s getting late. I have to get up early and put a favor order together. A hundred boxes for a wedding at the library.”

“I’ll get you a car,” he says as he pulls out his card, slides it in the billfold, and hands it to the waitress.

“No, it’s okay. I can walk.”

“It’s cold, and you’re alone. I’ll call you a car,” he insists as he pulls out his phone and taps something on it.

After the waitress brings him back his card and he signs the slip, we walk out to the curb, where a black town car is waiting. He opens the back door, and the scent of leather rolls out of the luxury mobile.

“Thank you for the drinks. This was a great idea.” I smile as I fidget with my purse.

“Thank you for dinner. You made my day.”

I step into the car, but he says my name, halting my movement.

“Amy, can I call you? I mean, not as your attorney?”

“You’re not on the clock anymore, so yes, I would like that.”

The smile that crosses his face is like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Good night, Amy.”

“Stay well, Mr. Blake.”