Chapter 8 #2
Our hostess led us through the room and opened a pair of French doors, revealing a beautiful, plant-filled balcony overlooking the ocean.
A table for two had been set with white linens, flowers, and clusters of votive candles.
I murmured, “This is beautiful,” as Tory pulled out my chair for me and I took a seat.
“You didn’t have to do so much for me, though. ”
He tried to downplay it by saying, “I don’t like crowds, so I thought this would be our best option for a Saturday afternoon.”
He sat down across from me and squeezed my hand as he asked, “Are you hungry?” When I nodded, he said, “I know you’re planning to make us dinner.
I’m not trying to get in the way of that, so we’re just here for drinks and snacks.
This is a tapas bar, and I asked the chef to prepare a tasting menu for us, pairing different drinks with various small plates. But if you’d rather see a menu—”
“No, that sounds fantastic.”
He nodded to the hostess, who’d been standing back and waiting for instructions. The woman said, “Right away, sir,” and hurried off.
I stared at the candlelight, which started to blur as I whispered, “This feels like a dream.”
“Are you crying?”
“No.” I’d answered automatically, but then I admitted, “Maybe.”
“Come here, Arie.” He held out his arms, and I climbed onto his lap and buried my face in his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all. This is amazing! You’ve made me feel so special today, and I’m incredibly grateful. I guess I’m not used to being treated like a prince, so I got a little overwhelmed for a minute there.”
He called me sweet in Italian, and I took his face between my palms and kissed him.
Then I rested my forehead against his and shut my eyes as I tried to memorize everything about this moment.
Upbeat jazz music could be heard from the bar downstairs, and a cool breeze carried the briny scent of the ocean to us.
I ran my fingertips over his short beard and traced his lips, which curved into a smile.
We stayed like that for a few minutes, until a waiter appeared with the first of our cocktails and fancy little snacks. At that point, I returned to my seat and tasted a salty olive before saying, “Since we’re having tapas, tell me about Spain. How long did you live there?”
“Almost two years, in my late teens. It’s a beautiful country, and I always wanted to go back for a visit. Somehow I never found the time when I was living in the UK, though.”
“What did you like best about it?”
Tory answered immediately. “The art and architecture.” He then proceeded to tell me all about Antoni Gaudi and his influence on Barcelona. At several points, he pulled up pictures on his phone to show me what he was talking about.
I loved his enthusiasm, but after a while he sat back and said, “I’m sorry. I’m completely dominating the conversation.”
“No, please keep talking. It’s fascinating.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded and said, “Tell me about some other Spanish artists that you like.”
He spoke passionately about Dali, Picasso, Miro, and others. It felt like I was being treated to a master class in fine art. Again, he found pictures online so he could show me what he was talking about, and he kept trying to explain what he thought was special about each of these examples.
He was so well-versed on this subject that I wondered if he’d been an art history professor. It had to be something like that. As he’d said, lies often contained grains of truth, so that tall tale about being an art forger hadn’t come out of nowhere. Art was a huge part of Tory’s life, no question.
I didn’t ask him about it, because he’d made it clear he didn’t want to talk about his career. Something must have gone wrong there, and maybe he was embarrassed about it. That could have been why he’d suggested lying to each other about our past. Maybe he’d gotten fired, or something like that.
I hoped he’d eventually feel safe enough with me to tell me the truth. In the meantime, I was glad he trusted me enough to open up about other parts of his life.
We ended up spending over three hours on that balcony. During that time, we watched a beautiful sunset, shared around a dozen small plates of delicacies, and sampled several different cocktails—although Tory only had a sip or two of his, since he was driving.
When we returned to my apartment, I said, “It’s getting late, so you should spend the night, instead of driving all the way back to L.A.”
“I’d love to.”
We decided to skip dinner, since we’d filled up on tapas. Instead, we got naked and spent the next couple of hours enjoying each other. Even though I still wasn’t ready for him to fuck me, I was learning that there were all kinds of ways to have fun together.
Afterwards, Tory ended up falling asleep sprawled across my bed. I got up and ran my gaze down his body. He was a masterpiece, as beautiful as the works of art he’d shown me tonight.
I covered him with my faded, dark blue comforter and shut off the light.
After I took a quick shower and got dressed, I went into the kitchen and cooked the dinner I’d planned on making for us.
I’d send it with him in the morning, so he could sit down to a home-cooked meal when he was back in his apartment.
He’d done so much for me today, and I really wanted to do something for him in return. This was all I had to offer.
Once the food was finished, I carefully packed it into storage containers and put everything in the refrigerator.
I’d made a chopped salad with a jar of dressing on the side, corn bread, seafood jambalaya, and a berry cobbler for dessert.
It was nothing fancy, but I knew it would taste good, and I hoped he’d enjoy it.
I returned to the bedroom and slipped under the covers. Even though I tried not to wake him, Tory stirred a little, rolling toward me and gathering me into his arms. I smiled and put my head on his chest.
Before I fell asleep, I replayed this extraordinary day with this extraordinary man. Tory amazed me. I’d never met anyone as kind and generous, or as fun and interesting.
It really was no wonder I was falling hard for him.