The Complete Darkest Sunrise Series

by Aly Martinez

  He chuckled. “Smartass.”

  After grabbing a menu from behind the hostess stand, he placed a hand on my lower back and led me through the restaurant. I had to give it to him; The Porterhouse was a sight to be seen. Tall booths lined the walls, while rustic, distressed tables created an aisle down the center. At the back, it T’d off to the left and the right, revealing smaller, slightly more secluded rooms. Brass lanterns with flickering candles adorned the tables, while the bright, white plates and shiny silverware gave it a classic Southern elegance.

  Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who thought the place was amazing. Every table was full and dozens of waiters and waitresses bustled around us.

  With a sweeping hand, Porter motioned toward an open booth.

  “This place is incredible,” I said, sliding in on one side.

  “Thanks. I’ll let Tanner know you think so.” He shrugged sheepishly and placed the menu in front of me. “I lost the Ninja Warrior course the day we competed for the ambiance. If it had been up to me, we’d have paper tablecloths and crayons.”

  I laughed softly and set my purse beside me.

  Tilting my head up, I saw him staring at me, a one-sided grin lighting his face.

  My cheeks flamed red all over again.

  And then he sat down…

  Like, on the same side of the booth…

  As in right next to me.

  Who did that?

  Oh God. Maybe I would need one of those excuses after all.

  And then it got worse.

  He angled to the side and leaned across me.

  “Uhh…” I drawled.

  Pressing against the back of the seat, I tried to get out of his way, but his large upper body was wedged between me and the table, his hand doing God only knew what underneath.

  During all of this, I would be remiss if I didn’t admit to secretly sniffing him. (Come on. He was the one sitting on my side of the booth, which everyone including a socially inept person such as myself knew was a major dating faux pas. And then if you add in the weird leaning-into-my-lap thing…smelling him was the least of our problems.)

  But, dear God, did he smell good.

  While I mentally congratulated myself on suppressing a moan, Porter suddenly sat up, his cell phone dangling from the end of a charger.

  “Sorry. My phone died earlier while I was waiting on you.” He climbed out of the booth and moved to the bench across from me.

  Praise. God.

  “Were you waiting long?” I asked nervously. And, judging by the gorgeous smirk that tipped his lips, my cheeks had flashed from pink to red.

  “Nope. You were right on time.” His eyes were bright as he confidently folded his hands in front of him and stared at me in the most unnerving way possible.

  And this was Porter. It seemed that unnerving me was his favorite pastime.

  Lifting the menu, I pretended to search the pages. “I usually am.”

  “Good to know,” he mumbled, but I could still feel his gaze burning into me.

  A chill traveled down my spine with as much excitement as discomfort.

  Why was he staring at me like that?

  Just as I decided to dig into my old jar of excuses and make a break for it, a young, attractive waitress appeared at the side of the table.

  “Hey, Porter. You eating tonight?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Charlotte, you want a drink?”

  “A glass of wine. White. House is fine.” I must have said it a little too eagerly, because Porter chuckled.

  “Bring us a bottle of Sav Blanc. Australian. And I’ll take a Hendrix and tonic.”

  “Two limes?” she chirped.

  Though it was a damn miracle I heard her at all, because right then, Porter reached across the table and hooked my fingers with his.

  “That’d be great,” he said.

  I felt her presence leave. Not that I looked up to confirm or anything. That would have required me to make eye contact, and I feared that my cheeks would go up in flames. And, beyond that, I was too busy pretending to be enthralled with the menu rather than the fact that he was now holding my hand.

  Christ. I should have known better than to go on a date.

  “Charlotte,” he called softly.

  “What do you recommend?” I asked.

  His thumb brushed over my knuckles. “Charlotte,” he repeated.

  “I haven’t had a decent steak in a while.” I turned the page, not seeing a single word.

  “Charlotte,” he repeated, this time louder.

  Without any way to ignore him longer, I looked up. “Yeah?”

  His handsome face was warm with understanding. “Relax.”

  I allowed the menu to fall to the table and grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been on a date in a really long time. At least, not a good one. Rita set me up with her hairdresser’s son a few months back. But he was an accountant, so I snuck out the bathroom window.”

  His eyebrows popped up, but I carried on because, well, he was still staring at me and still stroking his thumb over the back of my hand in a way that felt divine—and slightly petrifying.

  “I work twenty-four hours a day. And live and breathe my career. I don’t know what Rita told you about me, but I can assure you it wasn’t true. I’m not funny or interesting like she loves to tell men. In truth, my life is a mess. I’m a boring homebody who reads medical journals for entertainment and survives on microwave dinners for one. I appreciate you asking me out to dinner. I really do. But I’m not sure I can do this.”

  He continued to stare at me, but his eyes took on a humorous glint.

  Great. He was laughing at me.

  I needed to get the hell out of there. But first I had to get my hand back.

  Grabbing my purse, I gave my hand a tug, but he kept it pinned to the table.

  “He was an accountant?”

  Of all the questions I figured he’d ask after my little trip to the restaurant confessional, that was not one I’d considered.

  “Yeah. It was terrible.”

  He laughed. “And you thought you were boring.”

  I snapped my gaze back to his, a smile pulling at my lips. “Right? I almost fell asleep on him.”

  He finally released my hand and took the menu from in front of me, moving it out of the way. “I’ll do what I can to keep you awake tonight. I retired from accounting a few years back.” He winked.

  Shit!

  I bit my bottom lip.

  He chuckled. “Relax. I didn’t ask you to dinner for entertainment.” He dug into his pocket and retrieved a pen before writing something on a cocktail napkin. “I don’t need a song and dance. I said no faking it and I meant it. If you want to sit there and stare at the menu until you memorize it, I’m more than happy to sit here and watch you do it.” He flashed me a smile but kept his eyes aimed at whatever he was writing. Or maybe he was drawing? I couldn’t tell. “You want to talk, I’ll talk. You want to sit in silence, fine by me.” He finally slid the cocktail napkin toward me.

  It was some kind of map. Arrows started at a small star at the top, continuing through the maze of lines before separating out into two different paths.

  I was still trying to make heads or tails of his sketch when he folded his hand over the top of mine. A-GAIN!

  What the hell was up with this guy and holding hands? I’d known Porter for less than twenty-four hours and I’d already had more physical contact with him than I’d had with anyone else in years.

  “Charlotte, I would love it if you’d stay through the entire dinner. Maybe even through dessert and coffee too. But, if you decide to leave, I should warn you that there isn’t a window in the women’s restroom.” He remained serious as he pointed at one of the arrows. “Your best bet will be the emergency exit at the end of the hall.” He traced his finger across the napkin to the end of the other path. “Or the one at the back of the building.”

  Covering my mouth with a hand, I tried to hide my smile, but it was a
worthless attempt, especially when he grinned.

  He continued. “Let me be the first to inform you. I’m boring too. And I haven’t been on a date in years. All kidding aside, you might need that map in an hour. But you’re beautiful. And smart. And, regardless of whether you think you are, you’re funny too. So I’m going to sit here for however long you’re willing to stay and hope like hell that cocktail napkin ends up in the trash.”

  Jesus. Where did this guy come from?

  We sat in silence, his left hand on top of my right, my heart racing, his gaze never drifting from mine, his blues locked on my browns.

  When the waitress returned, she talked.

  Porter answered.

  But I sat there, reveling in the warmth that I hadn’t experienced since the chill of reality had devoured me.

  “So, what do you say?” Porter asked as the waitress watched me expectantly.

  “I’m sorry… What?”

  “I asked if you were gonna stay long enough to eat?”

  Damn it. I absolutely was. Porter might have wanted company in the darkness. But, with a single taste of the warmth, I wanted to bask in the sunlight.

  “Depends. What kind of dessert do you have for after dinner?” I asked, turning my hand over to intertwine our fingers.

  His eyes darkened as he purred, “Anything you want, Charlotte.”

  “Chocolate cake?”

  “World famous.”

  Without a word, I crumpled his cocktail napkin map into a ball with my free hand.

  He smiled. Mine was bigger.

  “Okay, Megan,” he said to the waitress. “The lady will have the German Shepherd T-bone.”

  A loud laugh sprang from my throat.

  “What?” He feigned ignorance. “You seemed to like the Wagyu today. I figured we might as well stick with canine.”

  “Uh…” the waitress drawled in disgust.

  I laughed again. Real. Honest. Laughter.

  And I felt it all the way down to the core of my soul.

  That was the exact moment I should have realized Porter Reese was dangerous.

  But I was too lost in his sultry eyes and his heart-stopping smile to give it a second thought.

  For two hours, Porter and I talked, using actual words. And not a single one of them destroyed me. They were light and fun but no less life changing. It had been too long since I’d allowed myself a night like that. I turned my cell phone off, drank wine, and had a fantastic meal with an incredible man.

  Porter kept his end of the bargain. He didn’t ask questions or cast any judgments.

  And I kept mine by not faking a single smile. I didn’t need to. My cheeks were aching before I’d finished my salad.

  For those two hours, the world kept spinning, only this time, I wasn’t frozen in place or sprinting to keep up.

  Porter and I spun together.

  At the end of the night, after a giant piece of chocolate cake with two forks and two cups of coffee, he walked me to my car.

  Not surprisingly, he held my hand the whole way.

  Definitely surprisingly, he brushed his lips against mine in an all too brief kiss.

  And then, as I climbed into my car and waved at him from the wrong side of the windshield, that warmth didn’t just wash over me—it consumed me.

  * * *

  Porter: Did you make it home safely?

  Me: I did. I just got into bed actually.

  Porter: Funny you should mention that…how do you feel about tacos?

  Me: In bed?

  Porter: What? No! We’ve been on two dates. Do I look easy to you?

  Me: You just said “Funny you should mention that…how do you feel about tacos?” After I said I just got into bed.

  Porter: Ohhhh…see I thought you said, “I just got a burrito actually.”

  Me: Uh…I typed it. I didn’t say it.

  Porter: Fine! I didn’t have a good transition from bed to see if you wanted to go have tacos with me tomorrow.

  I laughed and rolled to my side, kicking the covers off to combat the new warmth coursing through my veins.

  Me: I don’t know. If you count the Spring Fling, that’s like four dates in two days.

  Porter: I know. You can’t get enough of me. Don’t worry. I find it endearing.

  Me: Well, that’s a relief.

  Porter: Okay. Okay. You don’t need to beg. Yes, I’ll have tacos with you tomorrow at noon. I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who can get us reservations at Taco Bell.

  I smiled so wide I feared it would split my face.

  Me: I knew dating a restaurateur would have its perks.

  Porter: What can I say? I’m quite a catch. Now, say yes to lunch.

  Me: Why are you always trying to force me into having meals with you?

  Porter: Because if I left our dates up to you, we’d be eating tacos in bed. That’s at least a sixth-date kind of activity. Slow down there, Mills.

  My laugh echoed off the bare walls of my bedroom. Closing my eyes, I sucked in a breath and sank deep into my bed.

  Me: You’re right. My mind was clearly in the Mexican gutter. My deepest heartfelt apologies.

  Porter: Forgiven. Listen, I just got a text from my guy who knows a guy who knows a guy and unfortunately Taco Bell is fully booked for tomorrow. However, he was able to get us a table for two at Antojitos.

  Antojitos wasn’t your average restaurant—it was an experience. The whole place was decorated like a quaint road in Mexico, and waiters wandered around dressed as street vendors offering a plethora of authentic Mexican fare. Every day, the menu was different, but people raved about it. It was always delicious. They didn’t take reservations, so there was usually a line wrapped around the block.

  Me: That’s not fair. You can’t tease a girl with Taco Bell and then try to use Antojitos as a sad second choice.

  Porter: I know. I know. And to make it up to you, I’d be willing to eat your tacos in bed on our FIFTH date.

  Porter: Also…I JUST realized how filthy that sounded. I swear I didn’t mean it like that.

  I barked a laugh and paused my fingers over my keyboard when I saw the text bubble pop up. He was typing again.

  Porter: I mean…unless you did. In which case, we can do tacos in bed any time you’d like.

  Porter: Unless you were talking about real tacos, in which case the crumbs sound like a nightmare.

  Porter: Actually, can you do me a favor and delete the last four messages from me without reading them? M’kay thanks.

  Tears—actual tears—were in my eyes. I was laughing that hard.

  Porter: Christ. Why aren’t you responding now?

  Me: Because it’s more fun to watch you sweat.

  Porter: Are you laughing?

  Me: Yep.

  Porter: That makes it almost worth the embarrassment.

  Yeah. Okay. We were talking about eating tacos in bed (which was only slightly less horrifying than sitting on the same side of the booth), but I’ll be damned if that warmth didn’t fill me again.

  Me: Antojitos sounds amazing. I have to swing by my office in the morning, so I’ll meet you there at noon.

  Porter: Sounds good. Sleep tight.

  Me: You too.

  I sighed all dreamy-like and started to put my phone down on the nightstand, but the text bubble showed up again. I waited. And waited some more. Boring holes into my phone for at least three minutes until finally his message appeared.

  Porter: Confession: I wish I would have kissed you tonight.

  My heart stopped and my stomach dipped as I read it three times before finding the courage to reply.

  Me: You did.

  Porter: No. Not like that. I’m talking about one where you’d spend the rest of your night touching your bruised lips, and I’d spend the rest of mine desperately trying to memorize the way you tasted.

  My whole body came alive with a hum, from the tips of my fingers to my peaked nipples and everything in between. The sweet ache of arousal. I thre
w my head back against the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. I’d been with men over the years. After all, sex was just as much about biology as it was about emotion. But, when the orgasm faded, so did my interest in the other person. Looking back on those encounters, I remembered the release—the brief moments when I’d allowed myself to let go and actually feel something with another person. But not once in ten years had I remembered being kissed. I’m positive it had happened, but it hadn’t been enough to trigger a memory.

  Yet there I was, staring at a text describing a kiss that hadn’t happened, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt I’d never forget it.

  Me: Confession: I wish you would have done that too.

  Porter: Tomorrow, Charlotte.

  It was a promise.

  One I had every intention of letting him keep.

  I spent the morning in the office, catching up on the mountain of paperwork I’d let pile up while I’d been trudging through in the hell of March seventh. I was so behind that it was a wonder I could see over the top of my inbox. By ten thirty, I was still drowning in files, but I could at least see my desk, so I chalked it up as a win and called it a day. The paperwork could wait; Porter would not. Well, I mean, he probably would have, but I didn’t want him to. Or, more accurately, I didn’t want to have to wait to see him.

  I’d barely locked the door to the office when my phone started ringing in my hand. Rita’s name flashed on the screen, reminding me that I needed to have a nice long chat with her about her taking another stab at the matchmaker game.

  “Just the person I need to talk to,” I answered.

  “And hello to you too,” she replied in her typical sugary-sweet tone. “What are you up to this fine Sunday morning?”

  Wedging the phone between my shoulder and my ear, I opened the door to my car and climbed inside. “Leaving the office.”

  “Well, that sucks.”