Chapter Forty-Two – Fawn
The minute we step into the restaurant, it hits me right in the chest — a memory that’s not so welcome. Jason brought me here once, only once, and that was after weeks of hints and begging.
I squeeze Dylan’s hand as we’re led toward our table; the smell of breadsticks hits me, grounding me in the present.
This place looks the same. The tablecloths are white, stretched tightly, as if afraid of the tiniest wrinkle.
Napkins are folded in these adorable mini-swan shapes.
White leather chairs with dark wood bases shine painfully bright.
A small table lamp in the center of every table casts a warm glow.
Overhead are lightbulbs; I’ve never understood why restaurants ditched lampshades. I guess it screams luxury now.
Torin pulls out a chair before I even have a chance to grab it myself.
I lower myself into it, the cool leather against the skin on the backs of my legs.
A menu appears in front of me, but I already know what I’m ordering — the penne à la vodka.
Playing it cool, I open it as if I hadn’t already looked at it online earlier.
“Can I get the table any drinks?” the waitress asks with a practiced air, her outfit crisp, white shirt tucked away into a black skirt.
Torin nods once. “Your finest champagne, please.”
My head snaps up before I can stop myself. The waitress walks away, heels clicking against the white marble floor.
“Baby . . .” I whisper, pressing Torin’s hands in mine. “The champagne prices here are outrageous.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “So?”
Dylan finally looks up from his menu, eyes wide, disbelief written all over his face. “Whoa, dude. One sip will be like fifty dollars. They’d better let us take the bottle home.”
The waitress returns with the champagne, cradling it as if it’s a treasure, a silver cooler tucked under her arm, glasses clinking softly as she puts them down.
Torin thanks her, smiling easily, but then she lingers and keeps peeking a look at Torin.
Not a glance — no, a full-on slow perusal, her eyes raking over him before a grin splits her face.
She bites her lip and tosses her hair as if she’s in a shampoo commercial.
Oh, I know her game. I clocked it immediately. Of course, she’s taken a liking to him. He’s fucking hot. Who wouldn’t? I must be radiating jealousy, because Torin immediately puts an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in with a closeness that feels like second nature. He kisses my forehead softly.
The waitress straightens, and she clears her throat. I can’t help it — a satisfied giggle leaves me.
“Will you be having appetizers?” she asks, voice just a touch tighter than before.
“Nope,” Dylan says casually, not even looking up. “We had a little gobble before we came.”
Oh, Christ.
My foot instinctively kicks out, hitting his shin underneath the table. Hard. He exhales a puffed-out snort of surprise. “Ow.”
Torin arches an eyebrow, shaking his head. “Can’t take him anywhere.”
“I’ll have the pepperoni pizza, thin base, please,” says Dylan, bouncing back quickly, like always.
The waitress looks at me with the pen poised on her pad. I give her my most neutral smile. “I’ll take the vodka pasta . . . no cheese on top, please.”
Torin snaps his menu shut. “I’ll have the same as my beautiful lady.”
The waitress pauses for half a second too long, the tip of her pen in her mouth. “Wise choice, sir.”
Oh, it’s a wise choice from him but not me?
I squint as she walks away, her hips swaying.
Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe I’m not.
“Nice choice, sir,” Dylan teases as soon as she’s out of earshot. “Dude, that waitress was totally checking you out.”
“Well . . . I’m happy I’m not the only one who noticed,” I say, folding my arms with a little dramatic huff.
Torin responds too easily. “She was just being professional.”
“Have you slept with her?” I blurt out, my tone much blunter than I intended, rising above the sounds of glassware being lifted from the table.
Dylan snorts as his shoulders jiggle. He raises his champagne and takes a slow swallow, obviously taking it all in a little too much.
Torin’s eyes land squarely on me. “You know,” he says, that sly, infuriating smile playing at his mouth, “I love when you get jealous. It’s cute.”
I narrow my eyes at him; I am well aware he is enjoying every minute of this.
“But no, baby,” he continues, his thumb tracing the skin on my arm, “I haven’t slept with her.”
I scan his face to see if there is some flicker or crease that might me he’s lying.
“Well, if looks could kill, you’d be dead by now,” says Dylan, snorting.
Torin laughs softly and leans in, his mouth brushing my ear. “Don’t kill me, baby. She can look all she wants. I have my girl right here.”
I exhale, tension slipping out of my chest despite myself. “Sorry. I had a silly moment. I don’t know why I’m jealous,” I say, lifting my champagne flute and taking a sip.
The bubbles hit my tongue like betrayal — expensive misery. God, it tastes awful.
Nonetheless, I wash it down, mainly because this glass alone costs more than my last electricity bill, and I definitely do not want to say that aloud, let alone to Torin.
Dylan glances at me with his eyes narrowed in a sharp, suspicious gesture. He lingers on my facial expression a moment too long. He lets out a deep sigh and waves down a waiter. “Can I get a Dr Pepper?”
Torin doesn’t notice; his eyes are locked on me as if I’m the only person in the room. But then, our attention is drawn to the right, where a band begins to set up near the windows.
“I wonder if they take requests,” Dylan says. “Maybe we could ask for Run-DMC or—”
“Don’t you dare say Shakira,” I state, holding a finger up.
Torin chuckles. “Looking at the clothes they’re wearing. I don’t think they’ll be playing any such music.”
I raise an eyebrow and smirk. “Oh yeah? You checking out what they’re wearing now?”
He looks at me, hand raised in a gesture of surrender. “Hey. Just observational skills, okay?”
Dylan leans back in his chair with a grin on his face. “You should just go home tonight, Torin. Princess is clearly on your back.”
“Nooo,” I exclaim, holding up my hands in mock defense. “I was just kidding this time. I promise.”
Torin pinches my waist and then kisses my cheek. “Don’t worry, baby. I get jealous too.”
As if on cue, our waiter appears and plunks a glass down on the table. “Dr Pepper,” he says politely.
I immediately swap it with the champagne flute.
Dylan smiles, victorious. “Thought so,” he says. “I can read my princess too well.”
Finally, Torin pins his gaze on the switch; his eyes settle on the champagne flute. “If you don’t like champagne, why didn’t you say?”
“I’ll drink it,” I say promptly, pulling the flute of champagne a little closer. “And the Dr. Pepper too.”
Yum. Can’t wait.
The sarcasm drips from my thoughts, but I force a convincing smile onto my face. Then, the music begins, soft, slow melodies that make bodies inch closer.
Perfect timing, because the waitress comes out with a whole tray of stuff. She places down plate after plate, and just the smell of it makes my stomach turn.
Dylan’s pizza is massive; his eyes go wide, like he just discovered fire. The vodka pasta is next, steam rising from the plates, the sauce smooth. I sample it and immediately perk up.
The waitress finishes setting everything down, gives Torin one final glance, and leaves. I catch it and simply roll my eyes, digging my fork into my pasta like a spear.
Fine, I’ll let her look, but she better not touch. Otherwise, my claws are coming out.
The band’s music hums softly as we eat. I can tell we’re enjoying the food as the conversation dwindles — no jokes, no teases, just the clinking of knives and forks.
Torin’s hand wanders down my leg now and then, slow and spaced-out, like he hasn’t even registered he’s doing it.
Every time, my back does a little quiver.
Across from us, Dylan isn’t using the silverware at all.
He is gnawing at the pizza with his bare hands, making this low pleased noise that sounds borderline obscene.
Torin looks over at him, unimpressed. “You pig.”
Dylan doesn’t even pause mid-bite. “I love it when you talk dirty. But seriously, can’t a man enjoy his food?”
“You’re one step away from licking the plate,” Torin replies.
“I think I’ve done enough licking tonight . . .” Dylan’s eyes shoot to me.
I snort into my glass.
By the time we finish, I lean back in the chair and let a slow sigh escape, thoroughly stuffed, but my pride suffers a little.
Fuck, I’m bloated; I feel like a fat, spoiled house cat.
If I were wearing pants, I would totally be unbuttoning them right now.
Torin realizes how I’m sitting and smirks with knowing eyes and a squeeze to my leg.
“I’m stuffed,” I declare.
“You can be later if you want,” Dylan teases before taking the last bite of his pizza.
Suddenly, the band shifts, familiar chords floating through the room, soft and unmistakable. ‘She Will Be Loved’ by Maroon 5.
My heart gives a little lurch before I can stop it.
Dylan catches my eye with an uncharacteristically gentle stare. “Our song, princess.” He gets up from his chair, inching it back, and holds out his hand to me. “Dance with me.”
“No, Dylan!” I shake my head. “You know I have two left feet, and I’m so bloated.”
He ignores me completely. Of course, he does; dancing is his specialty.
Before I can protest again, he’s pulling me up to my feet, his hand warm and strong.
Laughter bubbles up in me despite my will as he pulls me toward the small crowd forming around the band.
Couples are swaying, their bodies close, the lighting soft and forgiving.
Hopefully, it’ll be forgiving enough that my bloated stomach doesn’t stick out.