As she shoved open the heavy, dragon-guarded double doors of the Jade Wok, Marcy glanced nervously around the lobby. She wasn’t nervous, exactly. Somehow, from their brief conversation, she felt absolutely sure that Frank Anderson wasn’t the kind of man who stood women up. She was nervous about what might happen after he did turn up.
A waiter looked at her and raised both brows in question.
“I’m waiting for someone, he should be here any minute,” she began, and as if on cue, the doors behind her opened, letting in a rush of chilly night air.
Marcy turned and her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t so much that he was good-looking, his features were too rough and irregular for that – it was more a matter of his presence, his height, the grave intensity of his dark blue gaze. He gave a slight nod in her direction. He had thick, ruffled graying hair and he ran his hands through it as if annoyed.
For a moment, Marcy was too flummoxed to even know her own name. Then she managed to nod dumbly.
“You must be Frank,” she blurted, inwardly cringing at how stupid she sounded.
He didn’t bother to dignify her words with a response. They were shown to a table and handed menus. He glanced around.
“It’s nice in here, isn’t it?” Marcy gabbled. “The decor is very restrained for a Chinese restaurant – of course all the dragons and what have you are fun – but the food is really something special, and the service is great. I always come here on my birthday. They have a take-out menu, too.” Shut up, shut up, she thought, and felt herself flush bright red.