Chapter 15
Chapter 15
AT HOME, I SCRUBBED and plucked and shaved and buffed until I was shiny and raw. I wanted to look my best for Marcus, and as the saying goes, “no pain, no gain.” And oh, my, was there pain. I peered in the mirror after giving myself a particularly brutal brow pluck. My skin was all pink and puffy, thanks to stray hairs being wrenched from their comfortable homes. Ice. I needed ice. I’d read somewhere that Hollywood stars submerged their faces in tubs of ice to tighten the skin and make them look camera-ready. Even though I wasn’t expecting any paparazzi on my date tonight, I figured looking as good as a movie star wasn’t a bad idea.
Let me preface this by saying, if you haven’t ever dunked your head in a bowl of iced water, I recommend you do, if only to feel how darn painful it is. All the ice from the trays in the freezer piled into the bathroom sink, I took a deep breath and lowered my head.
Within seconds, my face began to sting like it had been attacked by a swarm of wasps intent on causing maximum pain. Before long, the headache set in, a doozey, right across my forehead. I had to pull out. It was too horrendous. I dried my face off and peered in the bathroom mirror. All the ice seemed to achieve was to make me look as red as a strawberry, the front of my hair hanging limply around my face.
Note to self: find another way to achieve movie star looks without the risk of frostbite.
I glanced at the time. Six thirty-seven? My tummy lurched. All this Arctic head dipping had taken my eye off the time. I needed to get a move on, stat! I patted my poor, pink face with moisturizer and dried off my hair. Next up was makeup. I’m not big on a lot of makeup, preferring to try to enhance rather than disguise. I applied some loose powder and blush, a wisp of eyeliner and some mascara. A sweep of red lipstick to contrast with my light blue eyes finished off the look.
Satisfied I’d hit the right balance, I zipped up my dark blue, sleeveless tunic dress with a sparkly silver pattern and slipped on a pair of gorgeous navy patent leather heels that provided me with a good few inches to my frame. Marcus was tall; we’d look great together.
One final inspection in my full-length mirror and I was ready for my big date. On our first date, I didn’t have time to get nervous because, let’s face it, I didn’t know it was going to happen. But this one? Let’s just say the butterflies in my belly were so numerous, they threatened to burst out en masse .
I had no idea what was going through Marcus’s mind. Yes, he’d asked me out on a second date, and yes, he’d been flirty with me when he came to see me in the café. But our first date had ended so weirdly, I really had no clue what to think.
And then there was Josh, the guy I was supposed to be dating, according to my well-meaning friends. Why had I told him about my date tonight? I let out a sigh. Josh was a nice guy and he seemed more than happy to help me out with training for The Color Run. But there was no spark, no excitement the way there was with Marcus. You can’t make that sort of thing happen; in my opinion, it’s either there or it’s not. And with Josh, quite simply, it was not.
A heaviness settled in my belly. I knew I was breaking the beach pact with my friends. Heck, I’d even made up a story about the pact being in the presence of the Goddess of the Beach, just to get them to take it seriously. And here I was, about to go out with someone my friends hadn’t sanctioned. Pact or no pact, I knew they were wrong, and tonight was going to prove it, once and for all.
We had agreed to meet at The Salon, a trendy new restaurant in the city I had heard about but never been to. A well-dressed couple pushed through the door, and I stood back for them, holding the door open for them as they left, chatting among themselves. I entered the restaurant, taking in the music, the conversation, the buzz of the place. It was popular, that was for certain, the place was packed to the gills with diners and people at the bar.
I stood waiting for the ma?tre d’ , a man probably ten or so years older than me who was speaking with the couple in what had to be a fake French accent, it was so thick. There were so many “zes” and “zis” and “sank you vely much” it was a surprise he didn’t trip over his own tongue. I chuckled to myself. Just then, I felt a hand on my waist. I turned and looked straight up into Marcus’s eyes.
“Hi, Paige.” He leaned down and gave me a kiss on the cheek, only this time it didn’t feel like my spiky aunt’s chaste peck. It was slow and lingering, his warm breath tickling me. “You look gorgeous.”
I smiled self-consciously at him. I’ve always been attracted to self-confident people. I guess it was something lacking in me. I mean, it wasn’t like I was completely devoid of confidence, but I’m not like people like Marcus or Marissa. They seem to be effortlessly confident in a way I could only dream of. By being around them it would rub off on me somehow.
“Thanks,” I say, basking in his attention. I took in his striped, collared shirt and slim-fitting pants. He may be dressed like your average twenty-something guy but his physique did something to the clothes, making him stand out from the crowd.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t pick you up from home to bring you here like a proper date. Next time, okay?”
The ever-present butterflies whenever I was near him beat their wings in my tummy. Marcus was already talking about our next date?
The couple in front of us dispensed with, the ma?tre d’ turned and smiled at us. “Bonsoir. Welcome to Le Salon, zee restaurant of zee year. My name is Jean-Luc. ’Ow may I ’elp you?” he simpered.
“We have a reservation for two under the name Marcus Hahn.”
I watched as fake Jean-Luc ran his finger down the reservations book on the podium in front of him. “Ah! Voila! Zer you are. Ah, we ’ave ze Louis room reserved for you. It is ze very special place. You are ze very lucky couple zis evening.”
“Sure, great. Thanks.” Marcus widened his eyes in my direction, and I had to stifle a giggle. I knew exactly what he was thinking. Was this guy for real?
“I bet his actual name is John Smith, and I’d bet my bottom dollar he’s from Hamilton,” I whispered in Marcus’s ear, and he laughed softly.
We followed the ma?tre d’ through the tables, past all the people laughing and talking at the bar, and into an area separated from the rest of the restaurant by some thick dark red curtains. It was a beautifully decorated room with a floral centerpiece and a collection of pale pink candles placed on a plate of glass on top of a crisp white tablecloth, bouncing the light around the room. Jean-Luc may very well be a bit of a fraud, but he was right, this place was very special.
Once seated, Jean-Luc handed us two large leather-bound menus. “Your waiter will be wis you vely soon. You will ave ze exquisite dinner.”
“Sank you”—Marcus shook his head—“I mean, thank you.”
Jean-Luc narrowed his eyes at us before he turned on his heel and sashayed away back to his podium at the front of house. “ A bientot .”
I let out a giggle. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“I couldn’t help myself,” he said with a shrug. “That accent was more fake than Pamela Anderson’s boobs.”
I laughed, trying not to think of Pamela Anderson’s chest. I already felt so close to Marcus on this date. We were laughing and having fun. It felt different from our first date, the one that had gone so horribly wrong at the end.
“This room is gorgeous,” I said, looking around.
Marcus reached out and took his hand in mine, playing with my fingers. “Actually, Paige, I think you’re the gorgeous one. I’m so glad we’re doing this tonight.”
I beamed at him. “Me too.”
“You know, I have a good feeling about us.” His eyes were electric.
He felt it, too.
He picked up the menu and opened it. “Now, let me guess what you want to order.” I watched, smiling, as he scanned the page. “Aha, I think you’ll go for the salmon to start, followed by the fish or . . . no, definitely the fish.”
I opened my own menu to look at the options. Although I could eat it all, pan-fried Terakihi with couscous and asparagus was indeed my preference.
“How did you do that?”
He opened his arms, palms up. “It’s a gift.”
Our waiter arrived, and we placed our orders: a hot smoked salmon to start with, followed by pork belly with apple fritters on a bed of wilted spinach for Marcus, and the pan-fried Terakihi with couscous and asparagus for me.
“Would you like to share a bottle of white?” I nodded at him, smiling. A bottle of wine would make this evening even more romantic.
Marcus discussed wine options with the waiter and placed his order before returning his attention to me.
“Tell me about your day,” he said.
“Oh, I went on a run with . . . someone. It was nice.”
He arched his eyebrows. “A guy someone?”
Was Marcus jealous? “What if it was?” I teased.
“I might have to kill him, that’s all.”
I laughed, enjoying our light and fun conversation—even if it was about murdering poor Josh.
After a while, I excused myself to “freshen up”—girl-code for have a pee and check my makeup. I walked out of the velvet-curtained sanctuary and into the restaurant, scanning the room for the sign. Spotting it at the back, I made my way around the tables, impressed with how busy this place was.
I pulled the door open to the Ladies and came face-to-face with a glamorously dressed woman with cropped hair, big blue eyes, and red, glossy lips. My heart leapt into my mouth. It was my old boss, Princess Portia de Havilland.
“Paige! Oh, how lovely to see you. You look”—her eyes ran over my outfit, making me want to wrap my arms around myself and hide from her judgemental eyes—“well, you look the same. How are things with you?”
“Great! Amazing, in fact! Yes, that’s what they are, a -mazing.”
She arched an eyebrow. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that, arch just one brow. That one gesture says so much, don’t you think? Of course, Portia could arch one of her perfectly groomed brows at me, questioning me, judging me, telling me she didn’t believe a word I was saying, all with one, simple gesture.
Where was Helena and her Tarantino-style attitude when I needed her?
I was still holding the door open, wishing I wasn’t here, when a woman behind me said, “Pardon me.” I stood back, muttering an apology, and Portia followed me out into the foyer.
“Now, tell me, do you have another job yet?” she asked, her head cocked to the side, her face a study in concern—totally fake, of course.
“Yes, I’m helping a friend out right now, doing some marketing work for her business, and I have an interview for another job next week, so lots of things going on for me.”
“Oh, and here I was thinking you were working in a café. I must have got that wrong.”
“Yes, yes, you must.” I smiled at her, half hoping the floor would open and swallow me whole. Being digested by a floor monster was preferable to this Portia-induced hell.
“Well, I got engaged.” Portia bandied her left hand at me. I had to blink to take in the size of the rock on her ring finger.
“Wow. Well, congratulations.” Poor guy. I wondered whether I should let him know what he was getting himself in to?
“Thanks. I’m here drinking champagne with the girls to celebrate. Cristal, of course.”
I nodded at her. “Of course.” Wasn’t Cristal the pimps’ champagne? Or was that something else? Only getting to drink the stuff occasionally myself, I wouldn’t have a clue.
“Well, I must get back to them. We’ve decided to dine here, after all. Jean-Luc, the ma?tre d’ is a dear, sweet friend, and he sneaked us in. Isn’t that marvelous?”
“Yes, it’s . . . marvelous.” Wow, was I thankful for our private dining room. Having to look at Portia sip champagne and name-drop all night with her equally vacuous gal pals would be enough to put me off my food.
“Good luck with that job of yours, Paige. Ciao-ciao.” She air-kissed me.
“Ciao,” I echoed, hating myself for it, as I watched Portia saunter away, her heels clicking on the hardwood floors, her sequined skirt glinting in the light.
I shuddered, thankful the encounter was over and I could now visit the Ladies in peace.
When I returned to the table, Marcus was scanning his phone, a half-drunk glass of wine in front of him.
“Sorry, sorry,” I said as I sat down in my seat.
He raised his glass. “To us.”
I followed suit, clinking my glass against his, our eyes locked. “To us.” I took a sip, the cool liquid slipping down my throat and warming my belly, thoughts of Patronizing Portia vanishing from my mind.
We ate our appetizers and talked about a whole host of things: from his law practice to his love of yachting, from his family (one of four boys, all very competitive and high achieving) to his boarding school (missed his mother but “made him into the man he is today”). He was very open and happy to talk about anything, making me feel relaxed and comfortable in his presence.
By the time the waiter delivered our main course, conversation turned to my career once more.
“Have you made any progress on the job front?” Marcus asked before taking a bite of his pork. “Oh, this is good. Try it.” He sliced off a piece and offered it to me. I wrapped my lips around his fork, enjoying the flavors, and the intimacy.
“Mm, so good. Here, try mine.” I followed suit, offering up a forkful.
“Wow, now I have order envy.”
We ate our meals, enjoying one another’s company, the food delicious, the environment divine. After my final mouthful, I said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. When I went to the Ladies before I had the worst experience. My old boss is here, and she’s just as ghastly as she always was. Portia de Havilland. She makes me want to hit something.”
“Portia de Havilland?”
He said it in such a way as to make me wonder if he knew her. “Yes. Do you know her?”
“No, no. It’s just quite a name, isn’t it? She could be a character in a book.”
“Or better yet, a Tarantino movie where a couple of gangsters track her down and torture her, dumping her body in the harbor.”
Marcus laughed. “You don’t like her much, do you?”
“Sorry. I went a little too far, didn’t I?” I scrunched up my face, and Marcus nodded. “But to be fair, she’s a pretty horrible person. You know how people say someone ‘upwardly manages’? Well, I think the term was invented for her, she spent so much time sucking up to the bosses. She brandished her gaudy ring in my face.”
Marcus finished what was left of his dinner. “She’s engaged?”
“Of course. A rock the size of a small country in Europe. She’s having dinner here with a bunch of girlfriends.”
“Are you all done there?”
I placed my silverware together in the middle of my plate, the way Dad had taught me when I was a kid. “Yes, thank you. It was delicious.”
“How about we go get dessert at that place on Fort Street?”
“Sure.” I liked the idea of walking through the city streets on Marcus’s arm.
“Okay. How about I settle up and I’ll meet you out front?”
When I got outside, my dream of going for a walk was spoiled by the rain, monsoon-like in its intensity. That’s the thing about Auckland: it can start out cold, warm up to hot during the day, then rain clouds roll in out of nowhere. You have to carry three different outfits with you at all times to deal with it.
I stood under the restaurant’s canopy, waiting for Marcus, wishing I had some sort of tiny umbrella in my clutch that could unfold into a golf-sized one for us both to huddle under. It would be so romantic to wander the streets of Auckland together.
“Darn it, it’s raining,” Marcus said, pointing out the obvious. “Let’s drive, my car’s on the other side of the road.” He took my hand in his, and we dashed across the street together, me holding my small clutch up over my head in a completely vain attempt to stop my hair from getting wet.
Once in the car—a sleek, black European model of some sort, low to the ground—the doors safely closing the rain out, Marcus switched on the ignition and turned and smiled at me. “Let me guess your favorite dessert.”
“Bet you can’t.”
“I did pretty well on the dinner, don’t you think?”
“True. But maybe your psychic powers are limited to the savory,” I teased.
He put the car in gear. “I would say you’re a chocolate girl. Anything with chocolate, preferably some sort of mousse with chocolate wafers.”
Wrong . “Actually, I’m more of a lemon-y dessert girl. And my favorite cake is carrot. But nice try.”
“I like your style, Paige Miller.” Marcus checked his mirrors and pulled out from the curb. Pressing the accelerator hard, I was pushed back in the leather bucket seat of his expensive car, giggling with sudden excitement.
A few blocks later, he reversed the car into a parallel park not far from Sugar Plum, the most mouth-watering dessert-only restaurant in the city. I’ve had their self-saucing lemon cake approximately a hundred times, and it was always so light and fluffy, with a hint of sourness in the sauce that set your taste buds humming.
I put my hand on the door handle to push the door open when Marcus placed his hand on my shoulder. I turned back to look at him, and before I knew what was happening, he leaned across, his face so close to mine I could feel his breath against my cheek.
“Paige,” he said, his voice low.
I swallowed as I looked into his eyes, my mouth suddenly dry, all thoughts of lemon-y desserts floating off into the ether. This was it. This was our first kiss. This was going to be the kiss we would talk about for years to come: the night we went for dessert at Sugar Plum and ended up kissing in the rain. So romantic. I closed my eyes and leaned in, knowing what was coming next.
As his lips brushed against mine, I breathed in his scent, my insides turning to jelly. And, wow. Wow! It had been about a year since I had kissed a guy—that was seven whole years in dog years. Seven years! And the kiss? I mean, oh, my. What a way to break the drought. Tender but firm, slow but insistent, it had everything you could ever want in a first kiss.
Marcus pulled away from me and gazed into my eyes. “Did you want to continue this somewhere else?” He ran his fingers through my hair, making it hard to concentrate on what he was saying.
My eyes darted to the brightly lit Sugar Plum sign behind his head. “Dessert?”
He chuckled. It was low and sexy and rumbled right through me.
“Or not,” I offered as an alternative as he pressed his lips against mine once more. Kissing Marcus was even more incredible than eating the self-saucing lemon cake at Sugar Plum.
“I’ve got a hotel room not far from here,” he said between kisses.
I pulled away from him, searching his face. He wanted me to go to some hotel room with him? Alarm bells began to clang so loudly in my head, I could have sworn a herd of cows were wandering past the car. “I, ah . . .”
“I’m having my place redecorated right now, you see, so I’m living at The Royal. It’s just down the road from here.”
“Oh, I see,” I replied, letting out a relieved chortle. At least it wasn’t a charge-by-the-hour motel, it was a proper hotel room, booked for a legitimate reason.
But still . My relief was short-lived. He wanted me to go to a hotel room with him on our second date? I wasn’t stupid, I knew that meant sex. And it was way too early for sex with Marcus.
He brushed his lips against mine, making my mind go hazy once more. “What do you say?”
What would I say? On the one hand, I wanted him oh-so much. He was charming, he was sexy, and from what I could tell through his shirt, his face wasn’t the only thing that looked like Channing Tatum. On the other hand, I didn’t want a quick fling, over before it had even begun. I wanted a real relationship, one that grew and deepened each time we saw one another. One that would last. I had agreed to the pact with my friends because I wanted to find The One. Going to his hotel room with him right now was about a million miles away from helping me reach that goal.
“Marcus, I’d love to, but let’s take this slow, okay? There’s no need to rush things.”
Damn him if he didn’t kiss me again, this time slipping his fingers up the nape of my neck into my hair, sending tingles down my spine.
“But I want you, Paige,” he murmured into my ear, his breath hot on my neck.
“Marcus.” My voice came out unnaturally high. I cleared my throat and tried again as he began to dot kisses down my neck. Man, he wasn’t playing fair! “Please.”
He pulled away and looked into my eyes. “Sorry, sorry. I was getting a bit carried away, wasn’t I?”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
“I guess I can’t help myself. But I respect you and your wishes, so we can take it slow, if that’s what you want?”
I bit my lip, barely believing how strong I was being—and also kind of regretting it. I mean, it wasn’t every day a hot guy asked you to his swanky hotel room, was it? Well, it wasn’t for me, anyway. “It is. Thanks.”
He let out a long sigh as he slid back into his seat. “Can I drive you home?”
And he did just that, no self-saucing lemon cake and no more kisses.