“You mean you just wanted to call to make sure Preston Bradford and I were still going out tonight.”

My mother’s trill of a laugh grated on my last nerve. “Okay, fine, you caught me. I was dying to know if it was still on.”

My parents, along with their close friends the Bradfords, who lived in Houston, relished the fantasy that Preston and I were going to get married, not only uniting two political powerhouse families but also producing the marriage of the future president and first lady. I’m not sure how they had made the quantum leap from Preston and me merely talking to wedding bells, but if it kept them off my back for any length of time, I was willing to indulge them.

“Yes. He’s picking me up at seven.”

“That’s absolutely wonderful. I knew there was a spark between you two at the Bradfords’ Fourth of July party.”

I snorted. “The only spark between us at the party was when he accidentally caught my bathing suit cover-up on fire.” If Preston were ever elected president, he would probably outdo Gerald Ford in the clumsy department. It had been far too early in the party for him to use the excuse of being drunk. Instead, he could only blame himself for tripping over a chair and collapsing on a table, which knocked off a candle that hit the hem of my caftan. The only reason I hadn’t entirely written him off that day was because of how sincere he was when he apologized and how kind he was by looking after me for the rest of the party.

“For goodness’ sake, don’t mention that tonight. He gets enough teasing from his family about his clumsiness. The last thing he needs is to hear it from a date.”

Rolling my eyes, I said, “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mother. You know, I do know how to carry on a meaningful conversation with a man. You do remember sending me to summer finishing school, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I just don’t want you saying or doing anything to turn him off. He’s already so accepting of the fact you plan to have a career.”

“I will have a career,” I corrected.

My mother’s exasperated sigh told me she was maxed out with me being “petulant,” as she called it. “Yes, well, just have fun. Okay?”

“Thank you. I’ll try.”

“And let Daddy and me know how it went as soon as you can.”

“Mother, I’m twenty-four, not sixteen.”

“Annabel”— my mother’s voice rose an octave—“just humor us, okay?”

“Fine, fine,” I muttered, feeling the onset of the usual headache that accompanied talking to my mother.

“Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye.” I hung up and tossed the phone onto the seat.

I battled rush-hour traffic across town to my apartment, then hurried inside to get ready. After a quick shower, I stood in front of my closet, trying to decide what to wear. Normally a first date called for something sexy, but in this case I didn’t figure Preston and his overly conservative background would appreciate it. I decided on a pair of jeans, a dressy green top, and heels, and had just finished with my makeup and hair when the doorbell rang.

When I threw open the door, Preston, looking preppie and polished in a polo shirt and khakis, gave me a beaming smile. “Annabel, it’s so good to see you again.”

Returning his smile, I said, “It’s good seeing you again, too.”

His blue eyes surveyed me apprehensively. “You know, after our first disastrous meeting at my parents’, I was afraid you might not want to ever be seen with me again.”

I groaned inwardly but managed to wave my hand dismissively. I had to wonder how socially inept he was to even bring that up. “That was nothing. I’m glad to have a chance to get to know you better.”

Preston seemed to appreciate my well-thought-out answer. “Let’s go to dinner, then. I was thinking Pacey’s.”

I was a little surprised at his choice, but I didn’t let my expression reflect it. Pacey’s was a college bar and hot spot right off campus. It didn’t exactly scream romance, but I guess it was a safe bet for a first date. He knew his way around campus since he was a political science major.

“Sounds great.”

Once we got to Pacey’s, a waitress led us to a somewhat secluded booth. Just as I picked up my menu, I felt a prickly sensation run up my spine that someone was looking at me. When I glanced up at the bar, I locked eyes with a drop-dead good-looking guy. His jet-black hair was cut short, highlighting his chiseled jaw, covered in scruff, along with a pair of full, highly kissable lips. Even though he was sitting down, I could tell he was impossibly tall by the way his legs folded on the barstool. His chest muscles bulged under the white T-shirt he wore.

Over the shirt was a leather vest of some kind. I think they were called cuts. I had seen them before on television but never in person. The cut, with its sewn-on patches, was something bikers wore. Before I could stop myself, I licked my lips. My reaction caused a sexy grin to stretch across his face. When he winked at me, I quickly ducked my head and went back to examining my menu.

“What sounds good?” Preston asked. And it was then that I had the reality check that I was ogling some strange man not five feet from the man I was out on a date with. I vowed then and there to keep my attention on my date.

But as soon as the appetizer came and conversation between us became stilted, I found my gaze returning to the stranger at the bar. Each time I looked at him, he was looking at me. The more I took in his bad-boy appearance, the more I couldn’t help thinking about what it would be like to kiss him.