I feel a smile growing on my lips, in spite of myself. He knows just what to say to make me feel better, like magic.
At any rate, it’s too late to change my mind now, as the taxi pulls up outside a restaurant with floor to ceiling glass walls, showing off the diners within. To my relief, though I see that almost all of the men are wearing suits and a lot of the women are in evening dresses, and some of the other diners are also more casually dressed. Perhaps I won’t stand out like a sore thumb – even if I won’t be turning heads for the right reasons, either.
Not that I think I’ve ever turned heads that way.
The door staff greets Marco exuberantly, by name, ushering us over to a table which seems to have the best view in the place. From here we can see over the whole restaurant, including a glimpse through the open façade of the kitchen, and also out through the windows to the world passing by outside. But the glimmering chandeliers, extravagant customers, and plates piled with delicately arranged food can only capture my attention for a brief moment. Once we are seated, I really only notice Marco.
He’s a quiet and attentive man at most times – watching me, listening carefully to what I say. He’s perceptive and manages to recommend the menu items that sounds most appetizing to my tastes as well as hanging his jacket on the back of my chair to block out a slight draft that was coming at me from behind – even without me complaining about it at all.
I can barely remember what we talk about. The food, the restaurant itself, the city. Everything passes as if in a daze, including the delicious food. But as we finish our meal, he manages to get my attention so entirely that I hear every word branded into my memory.
“So,” he says. “Bella, what do you want to do tomorrow?”
That’s when I realize he was really serious about spending some more time showing me around. Today was wonderful enough, but I can’t work up the energy to protest against more. As much as it feels like it would be the polite thing to say, I can’t deny myself what I want. And what I want is to spend more time with Marco.
“I don’t know,” I say hesitantly. “What do you suggest?”
“You haven’t seen the big tourist sites yet, no?” Marco asks, reaching for the bottle of sparkling water on the table to pour me another glass. I had barely even noticed I had drained mine. “We can see all the great sights.”
“That sounds nice,” I nod, smiling. In my head, I’m frantically searching through the bag that I brought with me. Do I have nice clothes that I can wear? Something that will impress Marco? But at the same time, a voice in the back of my mind reminds me that to him, I’m his friend’s daughter – that he won’t be looking at me like that anyway.
I suppose I can still try.
“I’ll come and pick you up early in the morning,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about a thing, I will organize it all. I know where to go and what to do here.”
I flash him another smile. “Thank you for doing this,” I say. “And for dinner, too.”
Marco lifts his glass in salute. His is filled with red wine, not sparkling water. I suppose I could legally drink here if I wanted to, but it still feels too strange. “The pleasure is mine,” he says. “I get to have your delightful company. I’m getting the better deal, I promise.”
A flush fills my cheeks again at the sentiment. I wonder if Marco talks to everyone like this – it would certainly explain his success as a businessman – or if he really means it.
On second thought, I’m not sure that I want to find out. Much better to stay with the possibility that he could mean it than to have my dreams shattered.
After a dessert that is so exquisite I want it to last forever, Marco waves over one of the waiters and pays the bill without a word, laying his card across the top of a card reader with a practiced gesture and not a hint of a wince on his face at the total, which he doesn’t allow me to see. Still, I’ve seen the menu and I can begin to guess. I know that the meal wasn’t cheap.
I wonder just how rich Marco is, that he can simply pay for a meal like that without blinking an eye. Not that it has anything to do with how attractive I find him – the money is just an extra like a cherry on top.
“Well,” I say, with some reluctance, half-wishing he will contradict me. “I suppose I should go back to my hotel.”
“A good plan,” Marco says with a nod, throwing his cloth napkin onto the table. “You need your rest for tomorrow. Come. I will take you there.” He stands and extends an arm, helping me to my feet, even though I’m perfectly capably of getting up from a chair on my own.
He doesn’t let go of my hand even when I have moved away from the table, instead he threads it over his arm so that he can escort me properly out of the restaurant. The servers are all smiles, telling us ciao from all sides as we leave, but I can only really focus on the feel of my hand on his arm. His muscles are tough and bulging under my palm, swelling as he flexes them, and I can only imagine what he must look like under his neatly tailored suit. This mental fascination takes my attention until I realize that we’re sitting in the back of a
