Chapter Nine
As Bea led him to a table inside the fish-and-chip shop, Blane silently cursed himself.
He should have figured this out sooner, should have found somewhere good to take her for dinner.
He couldn’t have known they’d need to eat this early, but he could have done better than this.
The tables were covered in plastic cloths.
Baskets of salt, vinegar, ketchup, and other stuff he didn’t recognize sat in the middle of each one.
The menu was displayed on a white plastic board on the wall. He studied it, unimpressed.
Bea took a seat, and the guy behind the counter waved at them. “I’ll be right with you.”
“Oh, look.” Bea picked up a menu card from the table. “You can have a beer if you like.” She looked less certain as she read farther. “Although perhaps we should wait until we get back to the hotel for a drink.”
“Yeah. We should do that.”
He wouldn’t have minded a beer with dinner, but tagging on extra time in the hotel bar afterward was fine by him.
The guy came out from behind the counter to hand them laminated menus and drop cutlery wrapped in paper napkins in front of them. “Do you know what you want?”
Blane scowled. How the hell were they supposed to know when they hadn’t even had the chance to look?
Bea smiled. “We might need a few minutes. My friend’s American. I need to educate him before he can order.”
The guy grinned at Blane as he backed away.
Blane turned to Bea, whose smile faded. “Oh no. Did I say something wrong?”
“Why? What makes you think that?” How the hell could she know that hearing himself referred to as nothing more than her friend had hit him hard?
She pressed her lips together, but didn’t manage to hide a smile. “It’s the eyebrows. They’re giving you away. You were annoyed for a moment there, weren’t you? And—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed. You might already know perfectly well whether you prefer haddock or cod.”
He looked down at the menu. “They’re kinds of fish, right?”
She laughed. “Yes, Blane. They’re kinds of fish.”
Everything he could see seemed to involve fish and chips. He didn’t understand the appeal, but even apart from humoring Bea, he figured the guys would get a kick out of hearing that he’d tried them while he was over here. Then again, none of it appealed.
“You don’t have to have fish if you don’t want to,” she told him.
“What else do they have?”
“You’re in a fish-and-chip restaurant, Blane.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She laughed. “I know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I’m sure there are some token non-fish options. You really should have the chips, though. They’re so much better than those fry things you have.”
He scowled at that. He liked fries.
“Look.” She leaned across and tapped his menu. “They have pies.”
“Pies?”
“Yes. You could try cheese and onion. Or steak and kidney.”
He didn’t say anything. He could feel his face answering for him.
“Oh, all right. Turn it over.” She pointed. “There. That should do you, you bloody great American. They have pizza. That’s what you people eat, isn’t it?”
He grinned. “Yep. Pizza’s my thing.”
The picture didn’t look great, but pizza was pizza. As long as you were getting some, that was what mattered.
After they’d ordered and their drinks arrived, they sat sipping sodas while they waited, not saying much but not needing to. They’d somehow reached a level of comfort with each other that Blane couldn’t remember sharing with anyone outside the guys.
The guy was back suspiciously fast with their order. When he set Bea’s plate in front of her, it looked kind of good. Blane couldn’t say the same about his pizza. He’d thought the photo didn’t do it justice. Now he understood that the photo had been way too optimistic.
He glanced at Bea’s plate. Whatever he thought about fish, hers looked a damn sight more appetizing than the lump of dough and cheese sitting in front of him.
He picked up his fork and prodded what the menu claimed was pepperoni. He had no idea what it was. He sniffed it suspiciously before tasting, then made a face as he swallowed.
That was not pepperoni.
Bea was clearly trying not to laugh. “Is everything all right?”
He set down his fork. “That is not pizza.”
She burst out laughing. “It is. Or at least, it’s what passes for pizza here.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“It shouldn’t what?”
“Pass for pizza.”
“Oh dear.”
He cut himself the smallest possible slice and took a bite, partly because he didn’t want to give up without trying it, mostly because he didn’t want Bea to think he was a miserable bastard.
The taste confirmed everything he’d feared.
The dough was wrong. The sauce was … he had no idea what the sauce was.
He’d carefully avoided the so-called pepperoni this time, but whatever was happening with the cheese wasn’t helping.
He put the slice back down.
“No. Just no.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. We can order you something else.”
“It’s okay. I’ll pass.”
“Oh, come on. I understand that you don’t trust it after the pizza, but here.” She pushed her plate toward him. “Try one of my chips.”
“That’s okay. You need to eat.”
“I’ll never eat all of them. Go on, Blane. Try one.”
“I know what fries taste like.”
She gave him a stern look. “That is not a fry. That is a chip.”
“It’s fried potato.”
She shook her head. “You have so much to learn.”
A short laugh escaped him before he could stop it. The thing was, he had no desire to learn about bad British food. But he did want to learn everything he could about her.
“Go on,” she encouraged, apparently taking his laugh as a sign of weakness. “Try one. Please.”
So he took one, just for her. And he wasn’t about to admit it, but it was good.
Then Bea cut into her fish, took a piece from the thickest part in the middle, and put it on his plate.
“No, Bea. You eat it.”
“I don’t need all of it. Try it. You might be surprised.”
He was. It was good. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d demolished half her chips.
“Still don’t like them, then?” she asked.
He lifted a shoulder. “Still say fries are better.”
She reached across and slapped his hand. “You’re terrible. Do you know that?”
“Just honest.”
~ ~ ~
When they arrived back at the hotel, Blane kept hold of her hand as they walked up the steps. He even drew her closer to his side as they passed reception, where Lauren and Carla spotted them and waved.
Bea looked up at him with a knowing smile. “They flirt with you, don’t they?”
He didn’t answer, at least not with words, but the little grunt he gave told her everything.
“Honestly. You’re such a big, tough guy, but if any real baddies ever needed to defeat you, all they’d have to do is recruit a few flirty women.”
He turned a scowl on her. “That’s not true.”
“I’m not so sure. I think flirty women and bad pizza may be your kryptonite, Mr. Wilder.”
“You’re right about the bad pizza. Won’t argue with that.” He steered her toward the bar. “Think I’ve earned a drink for surviving all that British food. You’re coming with me, right?”
She laughed softly. He was hardly a charmer, but there was something about the way he said it—as though of course she was coming with him—that warmed her through.
“Of course I am; I owe you a whiskey.”
As they headed that way, he glanced down at her. “You’re not planning to make me talk to it again, are you?”
“No. You’re safe. You can drink it in peace.”
They didn’t sit at the bar this time. They ordered their drinks and carried them to a booth in the corner. Blane waited for her to sit, then slid onto the bench beside her.
Bea raised her glass toward his, but her smile faded before they touched.
She knew what the toast was this time; what it had to be. The only thing left was goodbye.
His gorgeous gray eyes met hers, and the light seemed to go out of them. He tapped his whiskey against her wine without saying the word.
“We’ve got a while.” He checked his watch. “Not long, but I ain’t saying that word to you just yet.” He looked at her. “I’ll say it when we get out of the elevator. How about that?”
She had to swallow before she could answer. The wave of emotion that hit her took her by surprise.
“Okay.” Her voice cracked a little on the word.
He inhaled sharply and sat back.
Oh dear. She hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable. “So, what’s next for you?” she asked, determined to move them along. “What other kinds of jobs do you do? I know you oversee security teams who guard country music stars. What else?”
“Whatever comes our way, mostly. We work some government contracts. These days, we mostly send the teams out. Cash still likes going himself. Thinks he’s some kind of superhero.
” His mouth twitched. “Me, I prefer training the guys who are gonna be on the ground. Don’t like admitting it, but I’m getting older.
No matter what I think, I’m not as fast or as sharp as the younger guys anymore. ”
She couldn’t resist. “You’re fast and sharp enough for me.”
He held her gaze for a long moment. She could get lost in those eyes. Then, just before the moment stretched beyond what either of them seemed able to bear, he huffed out a laugh. “That’s because you’re British and don’t know any better.”
She slapped his arm. “I told you. You’re terrible.”
This time he actually chuckled. And if she could, she would have bottled that sound and taken it with her.
He sipped his whiskey, and she stared down into her wine.
She wanted to make the most of every minute she had left in his company, but she was far too aware that those minutes were ticking away.
His big hand rested on his thigh beside hers, utterly still.
And somehow, it never occurred to her to think he was impatient. That he might be ready to leave. She would have assumed that once. With Simon. But with Blane, she knew better, even though she couldn’t have explained how. He wasn’t waiting for the evening to be over.
He was feeling it run out, just as she was.