I let her lead, all the way down to the street, the quick elevator ride silent, as I’m dreading the car ride will be, too.
Miranda looks left. Looks right.
“I’m the black truck over here.”
She follows and I open the passenger door, doing my best not to stare as she slides her way in, already buckling the seatbelt when I shut her in.
I climb in and start the engine.
“This is nice,” she says politely. “I feel so much safer in bigger vehicles.”
“Yeah, me too.” I clear my throat. Rack my brain. “Um.”
Um?
Good one Einstein.
I’m going to kill Wallace. Literally wrap my fingers around his beefy neck and—
“I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
Okay fine. Maybe not wring his neck exactly.
I’m not sure if I’m lying or not when I say, “I have too,” but I can’t bloody say I’ve been nervous as hell. What guy wants to admit that shit? Insecurity has been the driving force all week. Thank God I had that game Saturday to take my mind off of it, the nerves from that nowhere near as bad as the nerves pooling in the pit of my stomach now.
And she’s such a tiny little thing.
“Where are we going?” she asks, watching the landscape as we enter the freeway and I can see her image in the window, recently washed and highly reflective.
“Mason’s.”
Miranda turns to face me, eyes wide. “Mason’s?” She has a great poker face; the restaurant is notoriously impossible to get a reservation at. All it took was my assistant calling and we had a table for two in under five. “I’ve never been there.”
No shit. Not many people have.
I, however, go there often enough that a few of the servers and hostesses know me by name. Then again, I’m the shiny new member of the Steam—it’s their job to know high profile clients who might walk through the door with only a moment’s notice.
“I hope you like steak.”
“I do. And seafood, and salad, and bread, and dessert.”
“So, food?”
“Yes! Food. There isn’t anything I won’t eat, except…” Her voice trails off. “Onions and garlic. Yikes.” Her mouth twists. “You do not want me eating either of those things. Ever.”
“Why?”
“Uh…” Her head turns to glance out the window. “Let’s just say I don’t smell cute when I eat onions or garlic.”
“Don’t smell cute? What does that mean?”
She gives me a ‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’ look and I zip my mouth shut.
Oh. So what she’s saying is she smells like stank ass when she eats garlic or onions and I shouldn’t keep asking dumb questions about it.
Point taken.
I might be clueless when it comes to women, but it feels like some confidence is kicking in for me.
We chat the rest of the way downtown, only stopping so I can concentrate on not plowing down any pedestrians. They’re everywhere in this tourist destination, jaywalking and crowding the sidewalks, hordes at the stoplights waiting to get across the main drag.
Mason’s is easy to find yet impossible to park at and I’m lucky to pull up, so Miranda can hop out without being in the street. The valets are ready to take the car and my keys. One less thing to worry about.
A young dude comes to my window and I roll it down, keys dangling in the air. As I drop them in his palm, I say, “Can you let them know I’m here please?”
Code for: Get me inside and seated quick so I don’t draw attention to myself. He runs off, frantically whispering to his co-worker, who dashes inside.
Good boy.
I pop on my sunglasses.
Lower my head before opening the driver’s side door and climbing out, meeting Miranda at the curb, hand hovering over her lower back, but not touching her. I want to, I fucking do—I just don’t have the balls.
We’re greeted in the vestibule by a smiling host, most likely the manager, who begins kissing my ass almost immediately, damn near tripping over himself as he holds the door open for Miranda and asks if she’d like her coat checked.
“No thank you,” she replies and I’m glad—no waiting around after our meal if I want to get the fuck out of here. Then again, all I have to do is tell someone we want it and it’ll be delivered like that. Same goes for my car.
If my date is wondering about all the excellent service, she hasn’t said anything. If she’s wondering why everyone is beginning to take notice of us—of me—she hasn’t commented.
Why would she notice asshole? She doesn’t know who you are. She only knows your first name and that you can afford to drop forty-five grand on a couple baseball cards.
“Mr. Harding, we have you in our side dining room. It’s a bit more discreet.”
Miranda’s brows go up. “What are you planning to do to me Noah? Murder me and drag my dead body through the kitchen?”
The manager looks shocked, quickly hiding it behind an eager smile. “Beverly will be taking care of you with the help of Jacob. If there is anything more you need, my name is Carson, and I’ll be happy to get it for you. Just let one of your servers know.”
He pulls a chair out for Miranda then places the white linen napkin on her lap and the menu over her silver charger plate.
“Can I start you off with a bottle of wine?”
I glance at my date, questioning. “Wine?”
“Um.” She hesitates. “If I could just do iced tea that would be great. With a lemon if you have it?”
God, she is so sweet. And polite.
“Absolutely. And for you?”
“I’ll do the same. With sweetener.”
“Outstanding. Your server will be along shortly to take your order.” He’s gone in a flash and I turn my attention to the pretty girl across from me. Do my best to give her a grin, the tight expression strained, I’m sure.
“You poor thing. Are you nervous?” She laughs. “You look…”
“Angry?”
“I was going to say constipated, but angry
