Chapter 15 #3
The last I’d heard they’d also invested in a stone-backed oven to charr homemade pizza dough on.
Talk about delicious. The only issue is, I’m not quite sure I’ll be able to walk home after my stomach is full.
The drinks selection isn’t too shabby either; the usual house wines and tap beers available to buy by the glass or the bottle. As well as a list of cocktails shaken and stirred at the bar.
“Welcome to Asado’s,” croons the waiter as I step inside, peering over his shoulder, towards the bar, to see if I can spot Blake.
“Hi.” I smile, fishing my phone out of my clutch to see if I have a message from him.
Only one notification lights up my screen, but it’s not from Blake. Nope. Instead, it’s from the last person I’d ever want to hear from.
Thomas Mac has replied to your story.
You look beautiful.
“Everything alright?” asks the waiter, stealing my attention back to the here and now.
“Yes. I, um, I have a reservation.”
“Of course. May I have the name.”
“I’m not sure if it’ll be under mine or his.” I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear as I realise, I don’t even know Blake’s second name. “Try, um, Becker?”
A chattering couple take the spot behind me, creating a queue, while the waiter slowly trails his fingertip down a detailed sheet bursting with names and times. I hold my breath, gritting my teeth against the sound of the woman behind me and her tinkling laugh.
“Here you are.”
I inhale greedily, relief washing over me.
“For two of you?”
I nod, glancing down at my phone again. Still nothing from Blake. “Mhm. But I don’t think the other member of my party is here yet…”
“Not a problem. I can sit you at the bar while you wait? Or would you rather sit straight at your table? It’s requested here that your table be outside, in our pergola garden. Is that correct, Miss Becker?”
Did I mention, as well as the amazing homemade food, Asado’s also has an outdoor seating area, complete with pretty solar powered fairy lights that are strung above the tables and wound around the tree trunks?
Four, tall space heaters also sit in each corner of the garden paradise, in case the temperature drops unexpectedly, as well as a stack of blankets to ward away the chill.
A rush of giddy gratitude fills me thinking about Blake calling to make our reservation and specifically asking for a seat in the garden.
I don’t know how he knew, but after seeing it splashed all over my social media feed, I’ve wanted to sit in Asado’s slice of Italian paradise garden for as long as I can remember.
“The bar is fine,” I reply, the giddiness in my gut forming into a small knot of nerves. Although I don’t know why. This isn’t even a real date; not that the people around me need to know that. “I could do with a drink before he arrives.”
The waiter chuckles at my joke as he leads me to a spare seat at the end of the long bar.
Dumping my clutch upon the glossy marble top, I smile at the bartender awaiting to take my order.
“Could I take a cosmopolitan, please.”
“Certainly.”
I hardly have time to fish my debit card out before my cocktail is being pushed in front of me, a pristine white napkin beneath it.
I pay, declining the need for my receipt and take a delicate sip, careful not to dislodge the slice of orange peel draped over the thin rim for decoration.
While I wait for Blake to make his appearance, I spin on my barstool, taking in my surroundings.
No wonder Asado’s is such a social media hotspot, it’s decorated beautifully inside and out; with lightly stained oak tables and matching chairs, opaque tulle draped across the back and gorgeous copper light fixtures emanating streams of amber lowlight, making up for a very romantic feel.
A live band plays in the corner, creating a slow hum as the backdrop to the lively chatter of couples and friends alike.
The breeze from the open doors of the restaurant caresses my skin, lifting the lightest strands of my hair to tickle my neck and bringing with it the delicious smell of freshly baked bread.
My mouth waters, the tart lime from my cosmopolitan dancing across my tastebuds.
I swear, if I was to close my eyes now, I could believe myself to be tucked away in a little corner of Italy somewhere. Sun, sand, sea—
“I’m so sorry I’m late.”
I blink to find Blake towering above me – God, I’d forgotten how tall he is – an apologetic smile on his face.
My eyes track over the rest of him, the fresh cut of his chocolate brown hair, shorter on the sides, leaving the top longer with enough hair to pull to guide him between my legs—
Focus, Calla.
The starched white of his button-down shirt only serves to make his eyes even greener than normal, artfully paired with a pair of black slacks that mould to his muscular thighs and the slight bulge which reminds me, with a pulse of my pussy, exactly what he’s packing.
My mouth waters again, but this time for a more X-rated reason, and who could blame me? Blake is the most attractive man I’ve seen in a long time, and I don’t even think he knows it. Which is fine by me. I’ll happily spend all day – and all night – showing him just how hot I think he is.
I must feel the waiter’s eyes on me, watching, a second before Blake does because he leans down to graze his lips across my cheek.
My pussy pulses again, dampening my underwear.
I so wish his lips were on mine, right this fucking minute.
“I really am sorry, Calla,” Blake repeats.
“It’s fine. You’re here now.”
“I—”
The waiter, damn him, interrupts before Blake can finish. “Would the two of you like to move to your table? Or perhaps another drink at the bar?”
“It’s up to you,” says Blake, never taking his eyes off me, as if nobody else exists. Which, they certainly do, seeing as Asado’s is almost packed to the rafters and past prime dinner time. I wonder if Thomas and his band of merry men are here yet.
“I don’t think another drink will hurt anyone, do you?” I raise my almost empty cocktail glass. “And then we can order food?”
Grinning in agreement, Blake hops up onto the free stool beside me. I think the waiter utters something about checking up on us in twenty minutes, but I’m hardly listening, everything around me, the music, the chatter, the people, fading out, leaving Blake sitting at the centre of my attention.
“Just a Peroni, mate. Please.” Blake pulls his gaze from me for a heartbeat, but it’s enough to notice the missing heat on my skin, to order his drink. “And another…”
I fill in the missing blank. “Cosmo, please.”
The bartender nods. “Coming right up.”
Like a cat preening beneath the hot sun, I bask in the warmth of Blake’s eyes as he returns his sight to me. “Have you been waiting long?”
I shake my head. “A couple of minutes or so.”
“I really am sorry. I planned on being here early, but then—”
“You’re fine.” I wave him off, patting his upper thigh in reassurance and then making the quick decision to simply leave my hand where it is. “These things happen.”
“It won’t happen again,” Blake promises. “I got held back at work and then—”
“One Peroni and one cosmopolitan.” I press my glossy lips together as the bar staff returns. Can’t Blake and I just be left alone for one minute so we can talk? “That’ll be ￡23.65.”
Blake taps his card upon the reader before I can, shaking his head when asked if he’d like his receipt.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. After all, I am a feminist.
Which is also why I completely don’t judge the sparkly, golden warmth rushing through me at the knowledge of being cared for. I’m allowed to sit at both ends of the spectrum – being independent whilst also enjoying being treated and cared for, by my partner.
Blake takes a pull of his beer, the bob of his Adam’s apple distracting me more than I care to admit out loud. “This is a date, isn’t it?”
“Mhm.”
There’s that golden feeling again, like a shower of sparks, flowing through my veins at my admission of this being a date.
“Then I’m paying, Calla.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” He takes another drag, swiping away the condensation gathering at the neck of the bottle. “When we’re together; I pay, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
God, that bossy teacher voice of his…
I shift in my seat in an attempt to alleviate the ache growing between my thighs, but I don’t get very far before Blake is placing his own palm on my upper leg, keeping me close to me.
My nipples bead up against the thin material of my top.
I imagine they look pretty obvious with my lack of bra and it’s not as if I can blame it on the cold – Asado’s feels like a fucking greenhouse.
“How about fifty-fifty.”
Blake raises a brow. “Fifty-fifty what?”
“You pay,” I bring my cocktail to my lips, speaking against the rim, “and I’ll find other ways to pay you back for treating me.”
Blake’s grip tightens, his eyes dipping down to tits. I see the moment he notices my nipples when his jaw ticks.
“Calla,” he warns, voice dropping an octave or two.
I take a sip and giggle. Being with Blake makes me feel so fucking free – even more than usual.
“I’ll leave you to think on that. So,” I knock my knee with his, “you were kept behind at work?”
“Not so much kept behind. One of the boys I coach, he’s been having a little bit of trouble at home, so we were talking about it.”
My heart clenches.
“That’s very sweet of you to stay back and talk to him. Is he alright?”
“I think so. I think he just needed someone outside of the family to talk too, you know? Somewhere he can express his thoughts and feelings without being dismissed.”
“I do indeed.” I nod. “My mother’s a school counsellor so I grew up hyperaware of my emotions and feelings. She calls it my superpower. Although, it doesn’t feel so super when I overanalyse others without their permission.”
At that Blake gives me a small laugh and I swear I float to cloud nine at the sound.
“Well, I give you all of my permission to psychoanalyse me as much as you’d like, Miss Becker.”