Quinton is standing behind my car with his hands in his pocket and a smirk on his face. “You’re a terrible driver.”

Oh. Okay. Yeah. This is the ammunition I need.

“First of all, rude. Second of all, how dare you?” I climb out of my car and lock the doors before tossing my keys in my purse. “I’m a fantastic fucking driver. You, on the other hand, drive like a grandpa.”

Whatever. Sure I just said he was nice to follow. I lied. Or am lying. Same difference.

He falls into step beside me as we cross the parking lot. “I had to be a grandpa because you rode so close to my bumper that if I went faster and had to stop, you would’ve killed us both.”

“Whoa now, big fella. Playing it a little fast and loose with the exaggerations, don’t you think?”

“Big fella?” His shoulders bounce with laughter as he pulls open the door. “We’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

“As long as we’re agreeing that we disagree with what you said, that’s fine with me.” I approach the hostess, who is on her phone, before Quinton can retort. “Hi! Two please.”

I don’t mean to startle her, but by the way she fumbles her phone before it finally falls to the floor, that’s what I do.

“Crap. I mean, sorry!” She grabs her phone and shoves it beneath the hostess stand before grabbing two menus. “Follow me.”

I wasn’t really paying attention when we were pulling in, so following her to the seat is the first time I really take in my surroundings. The restaurant isn’t anything to write home about. There’s a glassed-off area above the bar seating where you can see the chef rolling sushi. Japanese-inspired lanterns hang overhead, lighting the room. The tables are a light wood and there are lots of red and black decorations hung around the room. It’s cute, someplace I could totally picture stopping on the way home from work when I don’t feel like cooking (which is pretty much every day).

“Here you go.” The hostess stops at a booth near the rear of the restaurant.

“Thank you.” Quinton turns his attention to the hostess and directs his full, wonderful smile her way. She freezes midmotion, the menus hovering over the middle of the table as color fills her face. It isn’t until he pulls them from her hands that her brain seems to kick back into gear and she damn near runs away from us.

Poor girl. Not that I can blame her. Out of everyone, I fully understand how being on the receiving end of Quinton’s attention can scramble your brain.

I want to make a joke about what he does to people, but since I have been people in this situation, I keep my lips zipped . . . and to myself. Off to a great start!