He was taller than I remembered—much beefier, too, especially compared to the scrawnier man who he was speaking with.

I hovered in the doorway and watched as he clasped the other man on the shoulder and nodded along to whatever his companion was saying.

Tom's eyes crinkled in a smile when they met mine. I drew a deep breath and knew those green eyes were going to be the end of me. They were so startling in color and even more so in how they seemed to play his every emotion, every thought like flashes across a screen.

Tom finished his conversation and walked over to me. He hesitated for a half a moment before leaning down to kiss my cheek. "You came."

Trying to focus on preventing my knees from wobbling, I briefly closed my eyes. I opened them again as I felt him lean back to a more casual distance.

"You invited me," I grinned.

"You look..." His eyes roamed over me and over the draping wrap-dress Trisha had lent me. It was made of a silvery-lavender colored velvet, and the way the fabric fell caught the light and accentuated my curves. "Stunning," he finally breathed.

"Thanks," I blushed.

"But what's with the torture devices?"

I laughed and let him steer me toward the bar, the thin heel of my strappy stilettos clicking against the marble floor. "They went with the dress!"

"Guess we won't be walking to dinner then," he teased in my ear.

The bartender appeared and took our drink orders just as five perfectly manicured fingers casually appeared around Tom's left bicep.

"Sorry, Tommy, can I steal you away for a moment?" The owner of the hand, a petite yet rather voluptuous looking woman, said. "There are a few donors I need to introduce you to."

As if noticing me for the first time, she smiled in greeting and winked. "It won't take long, promise."

Tom sent me an apologetic look, saying, "I'll be right back."

I smiled tightly. "I'll be here!"

I turned to retrieve my glass of wine from the bartender with a sincere 'thank you' and then turned back to watch Tom follow the woman. They stopped eventually in front of a man dressed in an expensive looking suit and a rather glamorous looking woman. She wore a long evening gown, that might have looked somewhat out of place except that it flowed elegantly and was not adorned with any jewelry.

I sighed as I watched them. The woman beside Tom was truly stunning. The tight, strappy dress she wore displayed every one of her tantalizing curves. The neckline was incredibly low, but her cleavage was mostly covered by layers upon layers of a shimmering chain-link necklace. Her hair—pin straight and nearly maroon in color—was cut asymmetrically so one side was slightly longer than the other. On anyone else, the look would've come off as ridiculous, but on her... it oozed effortless cool.

I sighed and took a long sip of wine.

The four of them together made an almost unfairly attractive group. Tom shook each of their hands and spoke with them briefly, all the time smiling and nodding. Every once in a while he glanced in my direction and his eyes crinkles.

Tom and the beautiful woman met with two other small groups of people before he plunked down onto the bar stool next to mine.

"Sorry about that," he said as he ran a hand through his hair, crumpling it slightly.

I smiled. "Quite the charmer."

He blushed and leaned against the bar next to me. "Part of the job description."

"And what is your job description, exactly?" I asked, angling my body just slightly closer to his.

"I told you," he shrugged. "I work for a non-profit."

I moved back slightly, calling his bluff.

"Alright," he frowned, watching me. "Maybe I run it."

I glanced up at him and smirked at his pained expression. "Maybe?"

He groaned, looking at me pleadingly. "There's no way to say it without sounding like a sod."

"So sound like a sod," I said taking another sip of wine.

He hesitated—his muscles tensing as if he really were in pain—and then deflated with a sigh. "I founded the bloody thing, alright?"

"You founded a non-profit that supports children," I said fighting the urge to smile.

"I founded a non-profit that invests in other charities," he said before rolling his eyes and adding: "that mostly have to do with child welfare in some form or another."

"And how old were you when you started it?"

He sighed rather dramatically.

"Tom—"

"Twenty-four. I was twenty-four."

"You were twenty-four," I asked incredulously, "and you just thought, 'Gee why don't I start a charity to save children?'"

"Emma—"

"You're right, it does make you sound like a sod," I said attempting to hold in my amusement.

He pressed his hand against his chest in mock injury.

His theatrics made me burst, laughter racking my chest. "How are you single?"

He grinned toothily. "Because I spend my Friday nights in bookstores?"

I shook my head as I carefully placed my now empty wine glass on the counter. "No, that's why I'm single."

"Well, lucky me."

The butterflies swarming in my stomach burst into a wide smile as I held the gaze of those sparkling, tender eyes.

* * *

I tried to convince him I could walk to the restaurant, but Tom didn't buy a word of it. He ordered us a ride and said his 'goodbyes' and 'thank you's to the attendees who lingered.

Sliding into the back seat was easy, but to my horror, I found climbing out gracefully—and without flashing anyone—was decidedly not.

Tom offered me his hand as I navigated the curb. I took it gratefully and was pleasantly surprised when he continued to hold it as we walked into the restaurant, nestled just off the bustling street in the shadows of its much larger neighbor.

The exterior was unassuming stucco, mostly covered by sprawling ivy that parted like curtains around the open windows. Two spotlights hung from the sign above the door illuminating the looping script: Lillian's.

The interior of the restaurant was surprisingly bright and warm. Mismatched tables and chairs crowded the small interior, nearly all of them full so that the servers had to turn this way and that to move around them. Sconce lights hung along the walls—in the rare spaces that weren't occupied by photographs—and cast their warm glow onto the diners below.

The waitress led us to a tiny table in the back corner of the restaurant, shielded slightly by a tall plant with broad, waxy leaves. Tom kindly pulled out my chair, and I felt his hand slightly graze the back of my neck as he moved toward his own seat. I had debated pulling my hair up or leaving it down for the evening, and with the echo of his touch still warming my skin I was glad I had chosen the former.

"How are you feeling?"

I glanced over at him questioningly, but eyed the wine menu in his hand and nodded. "Good."

"Shall we split a bottle then?"

I smiled and nodded again. "That'd be great."

He cracked a grin as he flipped open the menu. "What do you like?"

"Dry?"

"Red or white?"

I shrugged. "Either."

He raised an eyebrow at me. "You're truly indifferent?"

A sudden wave of confidence washed over me as I lounged back into my chair and nodded at the narrow book in his hands. "Pick your favorite."

His mouth quirked into a smile, but I could see the hesitation on his face. "Is this some sort of test?"

I laughed. "Why, are you afraid you won't pass?"

"Maybe," he admitted.

I leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin as I glanced over my shoulder at the other diners. "Well from the aromas I'm smelling, I can already tell I'm going to love the food... Plus the company isn't too shabby either, so I don't think you need to worry about it."

He closed the menu with a soft snap and then slid it toward the edge of the table. His crinkled eyes never leaving mine.

Our server greeted us with a smile and then dashed off again to the wine cellar in search of Tom's choice vintage.

"I wonder if the servers are all ballerinas," I mumbled.

Tom's laugh brought a faint blush to my face. "What?"

"Well," I started, waving my hand, gesturing to the rest of the dining room. "They must have to be so nimble to move around the tables and the customers—and they must be fairly strong to carry all of the plates and things as they do!"

Tom laughed again as he handed me a dining menu. The sound of it brought another smile to my lips, which faltered slightly as I opened the menu.

It was simply laid out and printed in an elegant font, but—to my growing anxiety—the entire thing was written in Italian.

I had been offered Italian classes during my schooling—French and Spanish, too—but I had snubbed the romance languages for German. Somehow convinced at age eleven that I would someday live blissfully among the Bavarian Alps, I devoted my school years to studying it. By university, I had more or less accepted my fate of residing in the Commonwealth, but Oktoberfest and a love of German literature inspired me not to abandon the language for another, perhaps more practical, offering.

"Do you speak Italian?" I asked, not lifting my eyes. I was familiar enough with Italian dining to know the basic structure of the menu, but beyond that, I was hopelessly lost.

"I speak food," He teased as he scooted his chair to the side of the table adjacent to mine.

I was about to open my mouth in protest, but his smile completely disarmed me.

"What's the question?"

"Everything," I laughed.

He closed his menu and leaned over my shoulder to peer at mine. I turned my shoulder slightly, angling my back toward him in hopes that it would make it easier for him to read.

I watched as his finger slowly slid down the list of offerings, but I wasn't listening.

Instead, I was thinking of his eyes and wondering if it wasn't their coloring that did me in but rather the kindness they seemed to emanate. As his finger dragged softly down the paper, my mind drifted to imaginings of another sort of hunger...

I woke from my musing when my shoulder blade bumped into his chest. I hadn't realized I had been leaning backwards into him. I stiffened in embarrassment and was about to move away when I felt his right hand drift to rest on my hip.

His touch was casual, yet slightly timid. I loosed a breath as my muscles relaxed and I willed myself to try and focus on Tom's voice.

He was still reading, as if nothing had happened—as if he somehow couldn't feel every single one of my nerves firing where he touched me—only pausing every so often to describe a dish he wasn't sure I'd seen before.

I thought he might move back when our server returned, but for the second time that evening, I was happily surprised when he didn't.

Our server uncorked the bottle and poured a little for Tom to try. Tom sipped it and then offered his glass for me a taste, too. I pinched the glass by the stem, trying to tune my senses to the palate of the wine as it washed over my tongue.

It was dry and dark, rather heavy, and lingered in my mouth even after I had finished it. I smiled and nodded to him. Tom, in turn, nodded and offered his thanks to the server, who poured us both a full glass before taking our orders and departing again.

I had guessed gnocchi had been somewhere on the menu and was relieved when no one had called my bluff. Tom had ordered some other pasta dish and an appetizer for us to share.

After our server had departed, I noticed that Tom's cutlery had miraculously shifted to his new place. I smiled, grateful to our waiter's attention and his subtly.

I took a long drink of the delicious wine before shifting in my seat. Tom and my knees knocked slightly as I turned to face him and, sadly, his hand fell away from my hip.

"Have you ever been to Italy?" I ventured.

He nodded. "Couple of times. You?"

I shook my head. "Almost. I did a term abroad in Munich, and my friends and I made plans to make a weekend trip."

He raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"

My throat constricted then, and I pretended to adjust my shoe as I attempted to collect myself. "It just... fell through."

"You alright?"

I glanced up and saw him watching me.

"Yeah, it's just my shoe..."

"Torture device," he corrected as he swirled his glass with two fingers around the stem. "I don't understand why women wear them."

"You know, men used to wear heels," I said sitting up.

He looked at me dubiously.

"They did!" I exclaimed. "It was considered fashionable in the 1600s!"

"As were corporeal punishment and witch trials," he countered. "Thankfully those fell out of style."

I laughed, which only seemed to encourage him to continue.

"You're only proving my point, Ems. They're not just torture devices, they're medieval!"

My smile grew seven-fold.

Only my family, and occasionally Trisha, ever referred to me by the nickname, and yet it sounded so natural rolling off of his tongue. "But they make my outfit look nice!"

"You make your outfit look nice!"

He had laughed when he said it but quickly sobered.

I shook my head, not wanting to let a lull come into our conversation. "So, where in Italy have you been?"

He had been to all parts of Italy by my reckoning, or at least all the best parts by his descriptions. It all sounded so beautiful, so full of life and flavor, that my heart (and stomach) lurched in longing. Thankfully, the appetizer Tom had orderedburrata di bufala—arrived as his tales of the gastronomical adventures met their climax.

He drizzled a crostini with balsamic, then smeared it with a heaping of the creamy cheese, and topped it with pinches of arugula and tomato. He glanced over at me and cocked an eyebrow in challenge. I hesitated and then leaned toward him.

"Close your eyes," he mumbled.

And begrudgingly, I did.

I imagined I looked like a trout with my mouth hanging open, but it was only for a moment before it was filled with an explosion of flavors, each fresh and overwhelming yet yielding to one another like members of a symphony. My eyes flashed open and I nearly groaned.

Tom watched happily as I chewed and then sucked on my lip where a drop of balsamic had escaped.

"That was... amazing," I said finally as I lifted my wine glass from the table and leaned back into my seat.

He took a bite himself. "Italy is an amazing place."

"Well, it is in the shape of a heel," I teased.

"We should go some time."

I laughed at the way he said—so casually, so offhandedly.

He popped the rest of the crostini in his mouth and set about making a new one.

"Oh come on," I said watching him. "You run a non-profit you can't be that loaded."

He laughed under his breath and carefully placed a burrata-laden crostini on the small plate in front of me.

"I know," I said dramatically as I wagged my eyebrows. "It's secretly a front for a money-laundering scheme."

He snorted, picking up some arugula. "You caught me."

"Well?" I coaxed, tilting my head waiting for a response. "How did you manage to start a non-profit at 24 years old?"

His eyes met mine and I could tell he was seriously considering his response. "I used my trust fund," he said slowly. "That got us started and then once we were successful... some very generous donors chipped in, set up endowments."

I hesitated, fearful of saying the wrong thing and making him clam up. "You said you invest in other charities?"

He nodded, his eyes still carefully trained on mine.

"We have some programs here in the UK, but most of our work is abroad. We support local organizations on the ground and work with them to get them the supplies and resources they need to get the job done."

"And what does a 'return on investment look like in your line of work?"

He shrugged. "Lower rates of malaria, increased literacy rates, higher median household income, that sort of thing."

I laughed—I couldn't help it. "My success rate is linked to the number of books sold."

"And are you considered very successful?" He asked as he took a bite of his food.

I smiled, not ready to let him out of the hot seat quite yet. "Why charity?"

Tom raised his eyebrows in question as he chewed, and I rolled my eyes. "Now I really sound like an arse who hates children, but you know what I mean. I assume you studied something to do with economics in school?"

"It started that way," he swallowed.

"And then?" I sat with one leg crossed over the other, and when I leaned forward just slightly my foot slipped and nudged his shin.

He nodded in acquiesce and explained.

He explained how he had studied economics in university, and while his friends had been interested in the stock market side of things he had always been rather bored by it all and instead found a passion for development. He was admitted to the London School of Economics and as a graduate studied international development and humanitarian emergency management.

"I know what you're thinking," he'd said a bit uneasily.

"No, you don't," I whispered as I shook my head.

"White savior complex," he'd continued, not hearing me. "And if I'm honest, it did use to be that way, but once I started meeting organizations working on the ground... Well, I realized they didn't need me to save them, they were already saving themselves. They had the brains and the passion and the motivation in spades. They were just in need of supplies and donors."

"Which you supplied."

He nodded. "I started the foundation, but Cynthia is the real bread and butter of it. She's a PR wizard."

My brows furrowed. "Cynthia?"

"My sister, you met her earlier."

I replayed the evening in my mind but, coming up with nothing, shook my head.

"The redhead—"

I sat up straight, beaming. "She's your sister!"

A slow smile crept across his features. "Who did you think she was?"

"Your incredibly attractive secretary," I admitted before I could think the words through.

He nearly gagged.

"She called you Tommy!" I exclaimed in defense.

He blinked, wide-eyed. "Everyone in my family does."

"Family," I smiled wider. "Sister. How lovely."

Tom laughed. "Emma, what did you think she was to me?"

I was suddenly inspired to take a very large bite of the crostini Tom had prepared me, hoping having food in my mouth would prevent any more words from blurting out.

His hand was suddenly on my knee, the flesh soft and warm. My toe flicked upward on reflex at the surprise of his touch, and my foot rubbed against his leg.

"Emma," he said as his thumb made gentle circles along the skin of my lower thigh. "You're the only girl I want to be spending time with, especially like this."

I dragged my eyes up to his and smiled unreservedly as I felt myself giving in to a sea of green.