8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Echo
I dressed up for my non-date/date. I wasn't sure why Remi wanted me to have dinner with him. I suspected he was saying thank you for being there with him in his office. Or? No, no, no, don't go there, Echo.
Aristotle said that hope is a waking dream, and just like dreams, it wasn't real . Remi owned a nightclub and two restaurants. He was handsome, rich, and confident. What on earth would he want with someone like me?
But he invited me to his beautiful restaurant. It must mean something.
By the time the Uber pulled up to De La Mer, I was a mass of contradictions: giddy with excitement to be having dinner with my childhood crush; and anxious that I was going to make a fool of myself.
With trepidation, I stepped out of the car, my heels clicking on the polished cobblestone walkway leading to the entrance. Remi's French seafood restaurant stood elegantly against the night, its fa?ade glowing in the warm, golden light.
I adjusted my navy wrap dress and brushed back a curl that had escaped my updo before heading inside. I'd dressed up. Of course, I had. The wrap dress was Marc Jacobs. I got it on sale at Macy's. It fit like a dream, and everyone knew wrap dresses hid all the jiggly bits. I wasn't fat any longer but I was still self-conscious of my body. I had been obese as a child, which was a direct result of being unhealthy due to the lack of proper nutrition.
Aunt Fern hadn't been the best caregiver in the world. I didn't get three square meals in her house. She left me to figure out my food—she was giving me a roof over my head, and the rest was my responsibility. She even locked the pantry and the fridge so I wouldn't steal her food.
Aunt Fern, for all her "Yes, sir, it's God's wish I take care of this poor orphan child, " was a mean-spirited woman who didn't have a kind bone in her body.
But once I was in university, I worked on myself. I worked out. I went hiking. I went mountain biking. Once I had an apartment with a kitchen that I shared with others, I started to cook for myself, which was so much healthier than eating at the cafeteria or, at my worst enemy, fast food joints.
Poor people didn't have the same access to food as the rich did. So, when people made fun of my weight, they were making fun of my poverty—it was a double whammy.
Well, look at me now! I was a size eight and not a twenty. My body was toned. Sure, I had an ass and big tits, but that was genetics. I couldn’t change any of that any more than I could change the color of my eyes. As someone of mixed race, I was always asked where I was from , which was code for, so who was black, your mama or your papa? Right after, the question that wasn't asked but hovered in the air was, " Who's your white daddy? Was your mama sleeping with someone important?"
Most people had the decency to keep their speculation to themselves, but mean girls like Marina had no problem voicing it. It used to not bother me; I didn't let it. Strangely, it wasn't until now, when I felt so much better about myself, that being called Poopy Pants annoyed me. I felt far more successful compared to pampered women like Marina and Lani. I'd worked hard to get to where I was, and every time they made fun of me, they negated my truth.
The ma?tre d’ greeted me with a polite smile and led me through the main dining area, where well-dressed couples and groups were savoring the chef’s latest creations. The air buzzed with conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the murmur of French music playing softly in the background. Crystal chandeliers hung like stars above the tables, and the delicate scent of butter and herbs lingered in the air.
I couldn't wait to see Remi. Would he like how I looked? Would he give me a hug? I'd love that. He smelled so good. I'd discovered he wore Homme Savage, and since then, whenever I went to the mall, I'd spritz myself with it just so I could smell him . So, my crush was a little more on the side of half in love . Not much I could do about how I felt.
I was guided through an archway to a private room with a partially open ceiling that allowed moonlight to filter in. Ivy climbed up trellises on the walls, and soft fairy lights were strung between the branches of an overhanging oak tree, creating a fairytale-like atmosphere. The table was set with crisp white linens, flickering candles, and gleaming silverware.
"I'm Walter. I will be your server tonight." A man in a suit pulled out a chair for me.
"Where's Remi?" I asked, suddenly scared that I had been stood up. It would be so embarrassing to eat all by myself.
"He's been held up with some work, but he'll be here shortly."
I sat down, feeling gauche. It was hard enough to be here but more difficult to be alone. This wasn't feeling like a date at all.
Walter did the sparkling or still water routine. I went for still. He asked me if I'd like an apéritif or a cocktail. I asked for a Laphroaig 10 on the rocks. I wasn't driving; I might as well take advantage of that. I didn't like to drink on a Sunday night, what with my first meeting on Monday starting at seven in the morning—but I was nervous. Uneasy. The feeling only grew when I continued to wait alone in the beautiful private dining area for Remi.
He was twenty minutes late. Twenty minutes . I should've left. This was insulting. Me, my scotch, and my bread basket, just sitting there in our lonesomeness.
"Gosh, Poo…Echo, I'm so sorry." Remi sat across from me.
No hug. No kiss. No handshake. And the icing on the cake, he was going to call me Poopy Pants. Great!
He wasn't dressed up. All the people I'd seen as I walked through the restaurant had been, but Remi was in a pair of jeans, an AC/DC T-shirt, and sneakers. I felt overdressed and embarrassed to have gone to all this effort. I'd even done my hair, which had taken me a good thirty minutes. It was rolled into a chignon that looked effortless but hadn't been. I had spent time on my makeup, which I normally didn't do. I'd even worn my pearl earrings, the ones that I paid over a hundred dollars for.
"That’s okay," I lied. What the hell else could I say? Hey, that wasn't cool. I've been waiting like a moron here for twenty goddamn minutes? And even though I didn't say it, he already knew, didn't he?
"You look amazing." He grinned, looking every bit the suave nightclub owner, all the women dropped their panties for, and my heart gave a traitorous flutter.
"Thanks."
"I took the liberty of ordering the chef's menu but asked to do a four-course instead of a six." He looked at his watch. "I have to be at Paint the Town Red at ten, so, I hope that's okay."
Good God! Could he make me feel like even more of an afterthought?
"We don't have to do this if you're busy," I said softly. I lifted my glass of scotch. "I'm good with just a drink."
Keeping the fa?ade of not caring was not easy—but I was the Queen of Stoicism; my skills were learned in the school of Rich Kids High and Crazy Aunt Fern.
"No, no, let's get this over with." He was looking at his phone as he spoke. "By the way, I forgot to ask, is there anything you're allergic to?"
I shook my head.
Let's get this over with?
Shame began to creep up inside of me, and my chest felt constricted.
"Excellent. You're going to love this meal. Chef Jacques does an amazing menu."
He set his phone aside and finally looked at me, giving me a host-to-guest smile.
"So, how was your Sunday?"
"Good. Yours?"
"Eventful." His eyes glinted with amusement.
Before I could reply noncommittally, the waiter presented our first course. It was a delicate plate of oysters on the half shell; each topped with a dollop of caviar and a sprig of dill. He poured a crisp chablis, the pale golden liquid swirling in my wine glass.
“Cheers.” Remi lifted his drink.
" Sante ," I ventured with a smile that I pulled from deep within. I was going to enjoy this meal and ignore how Remi's rudeness. Even if this wasn't a date, he didn't have to make me feel like I was a chore.
Well, this was the last time I'd accept an invitation from him.
Brave words! Because even as I thought them, I knew that if Remi asked me out again, I'd be there with bells on, no matter how much of a non-date it would be.
How can I have such a high IQ and still be so pathetic? Why does Remi make me stupid?
I knew the answer to that. The heart was not connected to the brain.
"You speak French?" Remi asked.
"I can say cheers in ten languages," I laughed. "It's an important skill."
"Which languages?" Remi asked, raising an eyebrow.
"English and French. And Spanish, German, Italian, Russian, Japanese, Mandarin, Greek, and Swahili."
He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest with a grin. "Alright then, let's hear it."
"Okay, here we go." I took a deep breath before launching into the list: "Cheers and Santé . Salud in Spanish. Prost in German. Cin cin in Italian."
"Everyone knows those," Remi teased.
" Za zdorovie in Russian. Kanpai in Japanese. Gānbēi in Mandarin."
"That's eight languages."
" Geiá mas ! in Greek and Afya in Swahili."
Remi applauded lightly. "Impressive. I think I'm sticking with cheers ."
"Cheers to that."
"Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me Echo." Remi held his glass up, and I clinked it with mine.
“To oysters and moonlight," I toasted.
The oysters were briny and fresh, with a hint of lemon that matched perfectly with the chablis.
It became easier to talk to him after that. He was smart without being an asshole about it. He was well-read and well-traveled. He knew enough about what his father's company did that we could talk about my research without him being completely lost.
The second course arrived, a lobster bisque that was rich and velvety, paired with a buttery chardonnay that lingered on the tongue.
Remi leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of wine before speaking casually about his work at the club and restaurants.
"I can only imagine the challenges of managing two kitchens and a nightclub at the same time," I said, intrigued. "What's the most ridiculous thing that's ever happened?"
"You mean besides seeing my ex being—"
"Besides that." I didn't need a visual of that in my head again because thinking about Marina with Alex made me think about her with Remi, and that hurt my heart.
He grinned, setting his glass down. "We'd just opened for the night, and this high-roller customer insisted on having his own private bartender. He had a whole entourage with him, and they were all very particular about their drinks."
"What did they want?"
"Oh, everything from elaborate margaritas with hand-crushed ice to martinis shaken with a specific type of vermouth. But the kicker? One of them wanted a flaming shot—something flashy. So, the bartender pours a line of Bacardi 151 shots, sets them on fire, and the customer grabs one with a smirk even as the bartender is asking him to wait."
I raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess, it didn't go as planned?"
"You got it. He tilts his head back, and the fire catches on his shirt collar. Thankfully, one of my security guys sprang into action and doused him with water."
"Was he okay?"
"Yeah, just a singed collar and a bruised ego. But his friends loved it and started calling him Fireball for the rest of the night." Remi chuckled, shaking his head. "They left a generous tip, so the bartender wasn't just left with the nightmare of burning down a guest."
I couldn't help but laugh. "Sounds like you get your share of entitled ass…people."
"Assholes is right, Echo. And, yeah, they're entitled, but all in all, the club and the restaurants are there to give people an experience—a good one. Life can be hard. Here is where I can give my guests a way to leave the world behind."
"At a cost," I pointed out. His places were not cheap. The cover charge at Paint the Town Red was two drinks, and cocktails started at fifteen dollars a pop.
"Hell, yeah. I'm not running a charity here. I'm in the business of making money."
"Isn't everyone?" I remarked blandly instead of charging into him about how he was also one of the entitled assholes.
My lack of enthusiasm went unnoticed.
"Well, I try. But I won't lie; there are times I want to pull my hair out. Like the time my head chef quit with zero notice and left me scrambling to fill the gap."
"How did you manage?" I ate some bisque.
"Got the sous-chef from Remi's to come down here. It was one of the longest nights of my life." He smiled then. "But it all worked out because I hired Jacques and haven't looked back since. If Michelin came to Memphis, De La Mer would get a star. I'm certain of it."
I nodded thoughtfully. "It's impressive that you can juggle all of that."
"Thanks," he said, his smile softening. "And what about you, Dr. Devlin? What's the most ridiculous thing that's happened in the lab?"
"Oh, nothing quite as dramatic as flaming shots," I replied, "but I did have an intern spill a whole container of cell cultures on herself once. She panicked and ran to the emergency shower without even thinking about the $10,000 worth of research she’d just ruined."
Remi winced. "Ouch. What did you do?"
"I couldn't even be mad. She was so mortified that I just helped her clean up and let her take the rest of the day off."
"You're kinder than I would've been. But then it's the company's money, right?"
I didn't like how he said that and since anything I said would come out snippy, I kept my mouth shut.
It was becoming increasingly obvious that this dinner was a mistake. In between our conversations that easily flowed there was unease—a sense of disquiet. He didn't want to be here—but was putting on a show. I was certain of it.
Could I feign a sudden migraine or something and get the hell out of here?
Before I could put that ploy into action, the third course, a seared sea bass with a delicate herb crust, was accompanied by a vibrant Sancerre that cut through the richness of the fish with refreshing acidity.
I found myself relaxing despite the flicker of doubt in the back of my mind.
The final course was a lemon tart with a buttery crust, paired with a late-harvest Riesling that tasted like honeyed apricots.
"Thanks for being there for me that night, Echo. It meant a lot."
I wanted to call bullshit on that, but before I could, his phone pinged, and his attention was diverted. He looked at me chagrined. "Sorry about that. It's the club."
"You have to go?"
"Yeah," he said apologetically, but it felt manufactured.
I was about to stand, but he put his hand on my shoulder. "Stay. We'll order you a car."
"If you're driving to the club, maybe you can drop me off. My place will be on your way."
He looked uncomfortable at that. "I'm on my bike."
"Oh. Okay. I'll walk you out."
He pursed his lips and looked sheepish. "Just wait here. There are people out there who know me, and I don't want them to see that I'm having dinner with you, well, not you per se, but another woman. Everyone is talking about Marina and me breakin' up, and I just don't want another rumor to catch on."
This was really not a date. Worse, it was a dirty, secret dinner.
My heart hammered in my chest, and I felt queasy, ready to throw up the beautiful meal I'd just eaten.
His phone pinged again. "Damn." He smiled at me. It didn't reach his eyes. "This was a great evening. It's been a pleasure."
He wasn't mocking me, but he was doing the polite brush-off. I sat down, feeling like a fool.
"It's been such a lousy day. My mother, sister, and Marina, they all came over, and it's been hell. I was looking forward to spending time with you."
Just not in the open where anyone else could see you spend time with me.
My heart gave a painful lurch. "Of course."
"And it's been lovely. Just what I needed to take my mind off all the nonsense."
He looked like he was ready to bolt because his phone was doing the ping-ping-ping thing, and his eyes were darting between me and his phone.
"Just go, Remi. I'll find my way home."
"I know you will but it doesn't feel right, so—"
"It's fine. It's not like we were on a date."
He laughed. "Absolutely not a date. You take care, and I'll see you around."
I blinked, struggling to keep my composure. “Yeah, around."
He had a puzzled look on his face. “You okay?”
I forced a smile. “Yes. Thank you, Remi. It was a wonderful meal.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Let me know when you get home safe.”
And then he was gone.
I finished my glass of water and just sat there, feeling bereft, stupid, hurt, and gullible.
That'll teach you to dress to impress Remi Drake.
Walter let me know that my Uber had arrived. I thanked him and walked out of the restaurant with my head held high. I had every right to be here, just like anyone else.
As I sank into the backseat of the Mercedes, the tears finally spilled over. I swiped them away quickly, determined not to let Remi ruin my night. I’d always known he wasn’t mine, but somehow, hearing him treat this dinner like it was an obligation felt like a knife to the heart.
I sat back and closed my eyes, letting the hum of the tires on the road soothe me. Damn, Remi Drake. He still managed to wound me without even trying.