She set down her fork.

He eyed it curiously. “I thought you were excited to eat it?”

She swallowed, then spoke softly. “I have a request,” she squeaked out.

“You want me to ask her to play the Pina Colada song?” he said, gesturing to the sultry singer in the slinky cream-colored dress, gripping a microphone tight as she sang about love gone wrong.

Casey laughed and shook her head. Just woman up and ask him to do it. She called on her best demure voice. “Would you feed me a bite of the cake?”

He furrowed his brow. “Feed you?”

She nodded quickly, before red flared in her cheeks. “You know, because we’re celebrating,” she said, even though she really wanted to say I’m trying a different tactic.

“When in New Orleans,” he mused as he shrugged and dug into the cake, then offered it to her, his arm stretched across the table. The sleeves on his white cotton shirt were rolled up; his strong forearms on display. Nate was an exercise fanatic. He’d played soccer when he was in college, and he put a premium on fitness now, too. She’d still be friends with him even if he weren’t so easy on the eyes, but it sure as hell didn’t hurt being fed chocolate by someone so . . . gorgeous.

She parted her lips. She was poised. Waiting.

Tense beyond belief.

Everything about this felt off to her. But she told herself to just let go as he fed her the cake—delicious, sinful, chocolaty cake that melted on her tongue. She rolled her eyes in pleasure. “Mmm,” she said in a low moan as she finished.

Something dark flared in his eyes ever so briefly. “You like being fed that much, Case?” he joked, shifting back to his playful side.

“No, I actually hate being fed. This cake is just fantastic.”

“So why’d you want me to do that?” he asked as he took a forkful for himself.

She took another bite, savoring the chocolate once more before setting down her utensil. The songstress warbled a tune about longing, while outside the window a group of women in short dresses teetered on high heels as they held hurricane glasses. Returning her focus from the action on the street to Nate, she decided to do what she did naturally—be straightforward.

“Okay, confession time,” she said in a conspiratorial voice, wiggling her fingers for him to come closer. He scooted his chair near to her. They were inches apart, and she was vaguely aware of how he smelled. Clean, and freshly showered, and he looked handsome in his dark jeans and white shirt. He wore suits well all day long, but at night he could rock the good-looking casual vibe like no one she’d ever known. He had the tousled hair, the warm honey eyes, and the slightest bit of scruff on his jawline to pull it off.

“Confess,” he said, like he was luring it out of her.