“Get to do it often?”

“Not often enough.”

Amber couldn’t help but smile. “Are you good?”

His gaze flicked to the low neckline of her dress as his voice turned to a rumble. “I am very, very good.”

“You are very, very bad,” she countered, with a waggle of her finger.

He grinned unrepentantly, and the warmth sizzled up inside her all over again.

“Your turn,” he told her.

She didn’t understand.

“What do you love?”

Now, there was a question.

She bought herself some time by taking a sip of her drink.

“Designer shoes,” she decided, setting the long-stemmed glass back down on the table.

He leaned sideways to peer under the table. “Liar.”

“What do you mean?” She stretched out a leg to show off her black, stiletto sandals.

“I’ve dated women with a shoe fetish.”

“I never said I had a fetish.”

“Yours are unpretentious.” Before she knew it, he’d scooped her foot onto his knee. “And there’s a frayed spot on the strap.” His thumb brushed her ankle as he gestured. “You’ve worn them more than twice.”

“I didn’t say I was extravagant about it.” She desperately tried to ignore the warmth of his hand, but her pulse had jumped, and she could feel moisture forming at her hairline.

“Try again,” he told her.

“Birthday cake.” She was more honest this time. “Three layers with sickly, sugary buttercream icing and bright pink rosebuds.”

He laughed and set her foot back on the floor.

Thank goodness.

“How old are you?” he asked, scooping a handful of nuts.

“Twenty-two. You?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Why?”

She shrugged, hesitated, then plunged in. “Hargrove is thirty-three, and he seems a lot older than you.”

“That’s because I’m a pilot-daring and carefree. He’s a politician-staid and uptight. No comparison, really.”