“I like what I like,” she stares at me, words squeezing out of gritted teeth.
“Why don’t you branch out? Dinner’s on me after all.” This time I do grin, unsuccessfully hiding my mouth behind the wine glass.
“Branch out? Should I order one of everything?” Jane raises her eyebrows. “Why would-”
“A tasting menu!” Dory claps her hands together. “Jane, you really are so clever. Of course, I’m so sorry I didn’t think of it.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“I’ll choose a lovely selection for you. We’re not too busy, so perhaps Philippe can come up with a few little surprises.”
I raise my glass to Dory and smile at the open-mouthed waiter standing behind her. “I would love Philippe to come up with a few little surprises.”
“What-”
“Is eight courses ok?”
I nod, “Wonderful.”
Jane sucks in her breath.
“Spaced over three to four hours?”
I smile, “The perfect length for a romantic meal.”
“But-”
“And we have plenty more wine, of course.”
“Of course.”
“There is one thing,” Dory says, glancing briefly at Jane, too quickly for me to be certain but I think I see a wink. She picks up the menus and tops off our still-full wine glasses. “We were planning on closing early tonight, which means once the other guests leave, you will be here all by yourselves.”
It’s all I can do not to laugh. Dory is a force to be reckoned with.
“Closing early?” Jane glares at her friend. “You don’t usually close early on a Wednesday.”
“I know,” Dory places a gentle hand on Jane’s shoulder, eyes solemn and so honest I want to nominate her for an Academy Award, “but tonight is a special occasion.”
“What kind of special occasion?” Jane asks, arms crossed over her chest, wine glass held like a defensive shield.
“A…birthday party,” Dory says, after a moment’s hesitation.
I nod, “Well, we don’t mind having the place to ourselves.”
“Whose birthday?”
“Uh…” Dory throws me a panicked look.
“Mine!” The young waiter blurts out. We all look towards him. He glances at Dory. She smiles and turns back to us. “It’s for Mohammed.”
“It’s my birthday, so we’re closing early.” Mohammed meets Jane’s glare, not a hint of a lie on his face. I give him a thumb’s up under the table.
“Happy birthday, Mohammed!” I grin and lift my glass.
“Let me prepare your first course,” Dory smiles again. Mohammed lights our candle and moves it to the center of the table.
They both leave and I reach for the plate of tartare, each a small scoop on top of tiny, round toasts.
Janes looks ready to kill me.
“What the he-”
But before she can finish her sentence, I slide a tartare into her mouth, watch her eyes widen in shock and can’t stop my chuckle.
“Give it up, sweetheart.” I pop a tartare into my own mouth, grinning as I chew. “It’s three against one.”
12
Jane
That son of a bitch.
I’m not sure who I’m angrier at, actually. We’re well into the second bottle of wine, and they’re all blurring together.
Mohammed, who, up until tonight, always seemed like such a pleasant young man, but this evening is thrilled to partake in my hostage situation, inundating us with slices of fillet mignon, tuna sashimi, truffle puree, and some sort of cream crab soup that almost brought tears to my eyes.
Or Dory. My former friend. She floats over, topping up wine glasses, replacing silverware, freshening flowers, as unobtrusive and inoffensive as a warm summer breeze. Albeit, in this instance, a breeze capable of forcing me in my seat for three hours and counting.
Or David.
God, David.
This gorgeous man, who only becomes more beautiful in the candlelight, shadows deepening the color of his eyes, highlighting a secret dimple in his cheek. His deep laugh rumbles through his chest and across my thighs. Those broad shoulders lift and move as he tells me stories of growing up in New Jersey, or shake with laughter when I make a joke about people who grow up in New Jersey.
And the way he looks at me, attentive and smiling, as if I am someone else entirely. Someone beautiful and charming, witty and clever. An ideal dinner companion. He’s so convincing, those silver eyes and soft lips and moving hands, that smooth, broad body. I almost believe him. I almost sink into the image he offers me of myself, ingesting the mirage of beauty as easily as I swallow whatever delicacy Dory places before me.
They’re all sons of bitches.
“Well, of course it is. It would have to be.”
I shake my head, watching the candlelight lick shadows across the muscles of his forearm as he tops my wineglass up again. At some point in the evening, Dory shooed the other customers out of the restaurant, turned on a jazz album and, I’m quite certain, literally turned up the heat. I’ve unbuttoned my business-professional shirt to allow air around my neck and David has rolled his sleeves up to his elbow, exposing a length of firm male skin. I drag my eyes away from his hand, the fleshy pad of his thumb pressed against the curve of the bottle, and look at him.
“Why would it have to be?” I ask.
“Because Beauty and the Beast is all about books. Belle loves to read, just like you.” He smiles at me.
I take another sip of wine, aware my lips are stained berry-red. We’re talking about our favorite childhood movies, after we discussed our childhoods and parents and family life.
Because this is what I do now. Discuss my hopes and dreams and private thoughts with the world’s most eligible bachelor.
Because that makes sense.
“It’s not because she loves to read,” I shake my head, leaning forward slightly and pressing my elbows on the table. The candle flickers between us, throwing shadows and dances of light across his face. I wonder if I catch his eye glance down, just for a second, towards my cleavage. “It’s because he understands what reading means to her. For Belle, books are a part of who she is. When the
