Measure of a Man Page 8

  “Citarella,” Lincoln informed the driver and then turned his attention to Peyton. “Have you ever been to this place?”

  “As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”

  “Good. I want you to associate only new experiences with me.”

  She grinned and was charmed by the corny line. “So when do we get to talk about you?” she asked. “I know you’re an artist—one with a lot of potential. But that’s all I know.”

  He hid a yawn behind his hand and then apologized.

  Peyton’s heart dropped. Am I boring him?

  “There’s not much to tell. As you know, I’m from Georgia. I’m a third-generation firefighter…well, used to be, anyway, until I injured my ankle.”

  Peyton’s eyes widened with excitement. “My father and brother are firefighters!”

  Lincoln perked up. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Here we are,” the cabdriver announced.

  As she watched Lincoln pay the driver, suddenly this whole attraction made perfect sense. The protectiveness and security she’d experienced in the elevator weren’t just her imagination. Forget Mr. Handyman, she should’ve been looking for a firefighter all along.

  They were late for their reservation, but were still seated rather quickly. However, no sooner had they sat down than she caught him in another yawn. Her ego was going down the tubes.

  “Are you sure you’re up for dinner? You look more like you need a nap.”

  After another yawn, he wiped tears from his eyes and tried to explain. “I’m sorry. It’s not you. I took pain medication for my ankle this evening. The side effects—” he yawned “—make me extremely drowsy.”

  She nodded, but the dent wasn’t so easily removed from her pride. “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

  “Yes. Of course.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I’m having a nice time.”

  She studied him and smiled when she read sincerity in his gaze. “Me, too.”

  “You’re sure you’re not finding me too…arrogant?” He wiggled his brows.

  She laughed. “All right. I might have deserved that. And maybe I was wrong for trying to put you in a box, but you can’t tell me you don’t do the same thing.”

  Lincoln opened his mouth, but sensed a trap and closed it.

  “Aha! I knew it.”

  “Wait a minute.” He chuckled, holding up his hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Uh-huh. What was all that stuff about women my type?” She enjoyed watching his face flush burgundy. “What’s the matter—cat got your tongue?”

  “More like trying to proceed with caution. I’m starting to feel like I’m standing in the middle of a minefield.”

  “Hmm. Smart man.”

  An older gentleman with a glowing smile greeted them. “Good evening. Welcome to Citarella. My name is Blake and I will be your server this evening. Will this be your first time dining with us?” he asked, handing over the menus.

  “Actually it is,” Peyton answered and glanced over at Lincoln. She nearly laughed out loud at how his eyes bulged. He noticed the prices. She leaned forward and whispered, “Is everything okay?”

  He blinked several times before he looked up at her. “Yes, fine. Everything is perfect.”

  “Great.” Peyton returned her attention to their waiter. “Could you give us a few minutes?”

  “Certainly. Can I at least take your drink order?”

  “A white wine will be fine—you choose.”

  “Water,” Lincoln said, closing his menu. “The medication,” he reminded Peyton.

  She nodded and waited until they were alone again. “You know, if you’d like to go somewhere else—”

  “No, no. This is fine,” he assured her with a smile. “Of course, I don’t know what half of this stuff is, but I’m open for an adventure if you are.” He winked.

  His dimpled cheeks melted her armor and she smiled. In the back of her mind, the cynic in her was busy trying to find something—anything wrong with him. All she found was a man with creamy dark skin, intense brown eyes and full sensual lips.

  There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with this man.

  “So how long have you been a firefighter?” she inquired, determined to fall for more than just his looks.

  “Eighteen years,” he boasted proudly, and then took a deep cleansing breath. “But I think it’s finally over. Even if my ankle heals correctly, I don’t think my career will ever be the same.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was beaned by a huge chunk of ceiling. When I went down, my ankle folded like paper.”

  She winced. “I’m so sorry. Have you considered going into another division of the fire department?”

  “None of them will give me that same rush of adrenaline, the same feeling of importance and making a difference.”

  She laughed. “You’re starting to sound like my brother. It’s a real judgment call on whether he’s in it for the civil service or for the way the job elevates his testosterone.”

  The waiter returned with their drinks.

  Lincoln laughed and reached for his glass of water. “Then we do have a lot in common. You said he lives in Decatur. Do you know what department he works out of?”

  Peyton frowned as she tried to remember. “Sorry. Not off the top of my head. I’ll have to ask him the next time I talk to him.”

  “Are you two ready to order?” Blake interrupted them with another charismatic smile.

  “Sure,” Lincoln said, reopening his menu. “I’ll have a number thirty-four.”

  Peyton frowned. “You do know that foie gras is liver?”

  Lincoln’s handsome features twisted in disgust. “Uh, scratch that.” He scanned the menu again. “How about a twenty-three?” he asked, glancing over at Peyton.

  She nodded. “A fancy cheeseburger.”

  “Perfect!” He beamed a bright smile up at the server as he handed over his menu.

  “I’ll have the same,” she announced, charmed by her date’s no-frills kind of attitude. “What happened to being adventuresome?”

  “I call paying thirty dollars for a cheeseburger one hell of an adventure.”

  “Very well.” The waiter snickered, and then disappeared from their table.

  “So,” Lincoln said, straightening in his chair. “What about you, Ms. P. J. Garner? Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself—especially how you ended up with the name P.J.?”

  “Well, P.J. is sort of a nickname. I found it also helped in business because so many people expected to meet a man when I went by my first name.”

  Lincoln’s gaze caressed her face. “You look all woman to me.”

  “Why, thank you.” Heat darkened the column of her neck.

  “So what does it stand for—or am I not allowed to know?”

  “I don’t mind if you know,” she said, shrugging. “It’s Peyton. Peyton James Garner.”

  Chapter 11

  “Are you all right, Lincoln?” Peyton reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Lincoln forced the corners of his lips upward, but was unsure whether he’d mustered a smile. “Peyton is, uh, an unusual name for a woman. Probably not too many women named…Peyton.”

  “Uh, probably not.” She laughed. “I didn’t always like it growing up. The children were cruel, but I grew into it. When I started my agency, like I said, too many peopl
e had the false impression they were dealing with a man. I can’t tell you how many times people thought I was my own secretary.” She laughed. “So my ex-husband suggested that I start going by my nickname. It sounded more feminine. That way I would just bypass the initial confusion. It turns out to be the only thing he contributed to the relationship.”

  “Ouch.”

  She shrugged. “The truth hurts.”

  The meals arrived and Lincoln was unimpressed by the looks of his thirty-dollar cheese hamburger.

  Peyton’s cell phone rang again. She made a quick apology and reached for her purse.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you?” the waiter asked.

  Lincoln cast a questioning look over at his date and then answered the waiter, “No. We’re good.”

  “Very well.”

  “Michael.” Peyton shook her head as she read the caller’s ID. “No doubt Joey tattled that I had a date tonight. She’s probably calling to see how it’s going. Standard sister stuff. I’m just going to shut this off.”

  Michael and Joey? Lincoln smiled and rubbed at his temples. “So how is it going?” he asked, and then watched as her cheeks darkened prettily.

  “I’m having a nice time.”

  “Good. So am I,” he admitted, but then silence stretched uncomfortably between them. He tried to process what he’d just learned. He studied Peyton’s angelic features.

  “Peyton,” he said, trying the name on for size. “You were saying that you were divorced?”

  She sighed. “Yes, does that disappoint you?”

  “No. No. Of course not.” He reached for his glass of water and chugged it down with one gulp. “Garner. What is that—your maiden name?” he asked.

  “No. It’s Adams, actually.”

  Lincoln needed something stronger to drink.

  Peyton rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. Why haven’t I reverted to my maiden name?” she asked, and then proceeded to answer her own question. “Each week, month and year I keep telling myself to get the paperwork started—but with the business and everything, it’s more of a headache then anything else.”

  “Peyton Adams,” he repeated for clarification.

  She frowned. “Yes.”

  Too many thoughts raced through Lincoln’s head. Number-one concern was Flex’s reaction to him dating his sister. Lincoln’s eyes roamed over her again.

  Flex’s fine sister.

  “Any children?” he asked, injecting warmth back into his voice.

  “No. Neither one of us was ready for that.”

  “And now?”

  She sucked in a stunned breath. “Maybe one day.”

  “Maybe?” He leaned in, grinning. “I’ve found that most women have made a decision on this matter somewhere around puberty.”

  “Are we gender-profiling again?”

  He laughed and held up his hands. “You caught me. Sorry.”

  “Forgiven.” She joined him in his silly grin. “But what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. How many baby mamas do you have running around Atlanta?”

  He nearly choked on his water. “None.”

  “That you’re aware of,” she challenged.

  “Whoa, whoa. I don’t have any rug rats circling the home front.”

  “Again—that you know of.”

  Fascinated by the way her eyes twinkled, Lincoln propped his elbows onto the white linen table and stared at her. “Okay. That I know of.”

  Peyton laughed and chalked one point for her on an invisible scoreboard. “You know, you also strike me as a man who loves to leave the toilet seat up.”

  “What?”

  “You do, don’t you?”

  “I’m tired of women complaining about such nonsense,” he said, laughing. “Learn to work the toilet seat. You’re a big girl. If it’s up, pull it down. We need it up. You need it down. You don’t hear us complaining about you leaving it down.” He smiled and gave himself one point.

  “Uh-huh. I bet you watch sports all the time.”

  “And how many episodes of Oprah and Dr. Phil have you missed?” he retaliated.

  “How do you handle arguments?” she challenged.

  “I handle them fine as long as there’s no crying and we’re clear that anything I said six months ago is inadmissible. In fact, all comments become null and void after seven days.”

  “What?”

  “Sounds perfectly fair to me.”

  “Can’t handle tears? Not that I’m a crier.”

  He shrugged. “Crying is blackmail.”

  Sucking in a breath, she continued. “How are you about asking for directions when you’re lost?”

  “Christopher Columbus didn’t need directions and neither do I. Just sit back and enjoy the scenery.”

  Peyton gave up and just started laughing. “At least you’re honest.”

  “Speaking of gender-profiling,” he said. “Not all men are interested in impregnating every woman they see—no matter how much fun it seems like on the surface.”

  Peyton giggled—damn it. Well, it’s certainly downhill from here. “Let’s make a deal,” she said, lifting her glass of wine. “No more assumptions.”

  “Or judging,” he added, raising his own glass. “For the rest of the night, we’re going to approach every aspect of this relationship with an open mind.”

  Their glasses clinked together and then he took a hearty gulp.

  “Relationship?” Peyton asked, after she had drained her glass. “That’s sort of a big word—especially on a first date.” Lincoln’s dark gaze settled on her, while butterflies fluttered nervously in her stomach.

  “Does the word terrify you?”

  She hesitated.

  “I’m going to take that as a yes. Now tell me why.”

  She cringed. “Why?”

  “Yes. Help me understand you better.”

  His plea was more than tempting, it was downright seductive. Add that to the way he was looking at her, and she was pretty confident about the way this night would end. Giggling, butterflies and a strong desire to see Lincoln Carver stripped naked and hovering over her were all signs that Peyton was a woman out of control.

  “My family,” she began, “places a lot of importance on marriage. Actually, at one time I did, too. In a family of six siblings, we all wanted what our parents had.” A smile hugged her lips at the sudden memory of her parents dancing around the living room cheek to cheek.

  “Their love was truly an inspiration. My two oldest sisters married replicas of our father, while the rest of us are hoping that we’ll be just as fortunate. I, however, have the honor of being the first Adams to have gone through a divorce. It sort of stings—and I guess it’s easier to point fingers at the opposite sex than to entertain the notion that maybe the problem is you.”

  “So all this male bashing is like a defense mechanism.”

  Did she say that? “You’re a fast learner,” she whispered.

  “Or…we have a lot in common,” he suggested.

  Peyton stared at him, once again loving everything her eyes graced upon. “Why aren’t you married?” she asked suddenly. “At the stroke of midnight are you going to sprout another head or something?” Lincoln’s rich bark of laughter wrung another smile from her.

  “Nothing as dramatic as that, I assure you.”

  The waiter returned to the table and refilled their glasses and then slipped quietly away.

&nb
sp; “I’m waiting,” she prompted.

  “Honestly, it’s just been difficult to find the right woman, someone who accepts the dangers of being married to a firefighter, for one. Plus nice guys always finish last. Beneath my armor of confidence beats the heart of a regular Joe.”

  “And a budding artist.”

  “More like a closet artist. Up until a few months ago, I never showed anyone my work. It was just something I did in between home improvements.”

  Peyton’s brows arched. “Home improvements? You mean like…repairing the roof or something?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, or something.”

  “What do you know about cars?” she asked.

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know how to fix a flat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oil change?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “You know,” she said, lifting her glass again, “I’m starting to think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

  * * *

  “Has she made it back yet?” Michael inquired.

  Groggy, Joey rolled over in bed and glanced at the digital clock. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Of course I do,” Michael huffed impatiently. “Which is why I’m worried about her. What do we know about this guy she went out with, anyway? Did you at least meet him?”

  “No, I didn’t meet him.” Joey rubbed her eyes. “P.J. is a grown woman and more than capable of taking care of herself. This isn’t exactly her first date.”

  “I think you should call the cops. New York is a scary place.”

  “How do you know? You’ve never been here.”

  “I watch the news.”

  “I’m hanging up,” Joey warned, plopping her head back down onto a pillow. “I’ll tell P.J. your news when she gets in or you can call back at a reasonable hour.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up on me! Aren’t you the least bit worried?”

  “No. She met a nice guy and what she does with him is none of our concern. She’s a grown woman.”