She looked down at her plate, then back up at him with a grin.

“Sorry, was I that obvious? I can’t help it, I grew up in the Bay Area in the eighties and nineties, I have a single reaction to hearing that someone grew up in Beverly Hills, and it’s— ”

“90210,” they said in unison, and laughed again. He used to hate telling people he grew up in Beverly Hills, but now that his whole background was on the Internet for the world to see, it made it easier.

“Anyway, I don’t live there anymore—I went to college at UCLA and have lived all over the L.A. area since then.”

“All done here?” The waitress didn’t wait for an answer and picked up their plates and swept them away. There was one last bite of burger on his plate he’d wanted. Oh well—they did have five pieces of pie coming.

“UCLA, of course. That explains the hat. I’m disappointed in this poor excuse for a disguise, you know. The same UCLA hat every time, and that’s where you actually went to college? Didn’t you ever think about something like a Yankees hat, or a USC hat, or something?”

He pulled the cap down over his face.

“Over my dead body.”

The waitress came back and slid the five plates of pie on the table.

“Here you go.”

Olivia stared at the pie-laden table.

“I can’t believe we actually ordered five different kinds of pie, but at least I wore a red shirt instead of a white one.” She shook her head. “But I have a feeling this pie will stain no matter what color the shirt.”

He pushed the cherry pie toward her.

“Stick with me, kid. One of the first skills they teach you in politician school is how to eat food around other people without spilling—even the messiest food.” He handed her a napkin. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll teach you.”

She picked up her fork and grinned at him.

“I might have to take you up on that.”

They both dove into the pie, pushing the plates around the table as they alternated bites. She ate with such enjoyment—she would pause and close her eyes after the first bite of each piece, as if she needed to shut the world out to concentrate on it. He wondered if she brought that kind of concentration to everything she did.

He would bet on it.

As they ate, they talked about pies they had known, which led to a discussion of best and worst meals they’d had while traveling, which led to airplane horror stories.

Finally, Olivia put her fork down with a sigh.

“Those were all delicious, but I can’t eat another bite.” She looked down at her shirt. “I should quit while I’m ahead anyway; I managed to keep this shirt cherry-free, I don’t want to push my luck.”

When the waitress dropped the bill on the table, Max pulled out his wallet.

“My treat? As a welcome to California?”

Olivia withdrew her hand from her purse and smiled at him.

“Thank you. And thanks for introducing me to this place; you were right about that pie.”

He smiled to himself as he tossed bills on the table. He hadn’t been at all sure she’d let him pay for dinner. He hoped that meant she liked him some. Because he already knew he liked her a lot.

They walked out to the parking lot, and Olivia pulled her phone out of her purse.

“Well, I should get a car to get me home, so . . .”

Max put his hand on her shoulder.

“You didn’t drive? Can I drive you home?”

Please let her say yes.

“I didn’t drive, no, because . . . I still haven’t bought a car. So yes, I’ll take that ride home.”

He took an exaggerated step backward.

“Wait. You still don’t have a car?” he asked. “And you say you’re from California?”

He’d hoped to make her laugh, and he’d succeeded.

“I know, I know, but I’ve been so busy ever since I got here. I haven’t had time to buy one yet.”

He led her toward his car.

“That’s something a New Yorker would say.”

She glared at him, but he was pretty sure he could tell she was smiling behind that.

“It is not,” she said. “A New Yorker wouldn’t even have a driver’s license! They’d just complain about the public transportation here forever.” She bit her lip. “And I hate to say this, but they’d have a point.”

He opened the passenger door for her, and she got in.

“I hate to cede the point to the New Yorkers, but you’re right about that.”

They smiled at each other as he closed the door.

Max spread his big, firm hands on the steering wheel, and Olivia couldn’t keep her eyes off them. Or her body from remembering every single touch from those hands—when she’d first walked in and he’d put his hand on her arm and then her back; when he’d touched and then briefly held her hand at the table; when he’d handed her napkins and pie and ketchup, and his fingers had lingered for a few extra seconds on hers . . . or had that been her imagination? And then just now, when he’d put his hand on her shoulder, and she’d wanted it to stay there for so much longer.

She smiled to herself. Tonight was going to be good.

“What’s your address?” he asked.

She gave it to him, then double-checked in her phone.

“Okay, yes, that’s the right address. I still only half know it.” She shook her head at herself. “I lived in the same place the entire time I was in New York, so I almost gave you an address that was a few days’ drive away.”

He smiled at her and pulled out of the parking lot.

“No problem, this is probably a good time of night to start a cross-country drive anyway. No traffic getting out of L.A., so we could probably get to Colorado by morning.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Are you sure about that? How fast do you drive, anyway?”

He threw her a grin.

“Don’t you worry. You’re very safe with me.”

She bit her lip as she glanced sideways at him—that arrogant grin was far too sexy for his own good. Hell, Max was far too sexy for his own good. She’d expected to flirt with him a lot tonight, but she hadn’t expected to talk to him, with him, that much. He looked right at her when she was talking like she was the only person in the world, and that he was fascinated by what she was saying. And then he asked follow-up questions that made it clear he’d been paying attention! Which in turn made her want to rip his clothes off right there in the restaurant.

That whole focused-attention thing was a politician trick; she knew that. He had some specific professional skills that also happened to be exactly the right way to get into a woman’s pants, and he was using that skill for all it was worth.

Well, it was working.

He took his baseball cap off and tossed it in the back seat, and ran his fingers through his hair. She shook her head. She’d been right—perfect tousled waves, even after being under a baseball cap all night.

“Do you like being a senator?” she asked him. “What with the different schedule and the security concerns and the travel and everything else.”

Why had she asked him that? Probably because his charm offensive had gotten to her enough that she really wanted to know what he would say.