32. Elio
Elio
“T his is your restaurant?!” Deirdre cries as we enter the luxurious dining room of Le Moineau . “Doesn’t it have a Michelin star?”
“Two, actually,” I tell her as the ma?tre d’ gives us a deferential greeting and leads us through the opulent space. I keep Deirdre close, my hand on her lower back as we walk. Her dark red shoes click along the highly polished wood of the floors as we approach my usual table.
It’s secluded from the rest of the restaurant, the table tucked into an intimate corner that’s further separated from the other people dining by a wrought iron trellis with plants curling along its shape. Not that there are any other patrons here. I’ve closed out the entire place for us tonight.
The ma?tre d’ pulls out Deirdre’s chair for her, but one look from me has him moving swiftly away. I replace him behind her, pushing her chair in for her as she sits. She turns around to thank the ma?tre d’, then blushes fiercely when she sees it’s me.
“Thanks,” she whispers. “Where is everyone?” She cranes her neck to see past the wrought iron trellis with its dark, curling leaves.
“Eating in somebody else’s restaurant tonight,” I say with a shrug as I sit across from her. I don’t really give a fuck where the rest of Toronto’s idiotic lovebirds have ended up tonight. I only care about the Songbird sitting on the other side of the table.
The lighting in here is dim and soft. It makes Deirdre’s skin glow and her eyes look huge and dark. She looks like a fucking painting sitting there with those eyes and that hair and that dress. A work of fucking art that should be hung up on a wall somewhere and studied.
Only by me, of course.
She casts her eyes down at the menu then looks startled.
“Oh, wow. They don’t even put prices on the menu here,” she remarks, picking up the menu like she’s afraid she’ll break it or get it dirty.
“The kind of people who eat here aren’t concerned by prices or budgets,” I tell her. “You’re one of those people now.”
She puts down the menu and sighs.
“It’s hard to get used to. Not long ago I was in such a massive amount of debt. Now I’m someone who doesn’t have to worry about prices?”
“That’s what happens when you marry the right man.”
I fully expect her to scowl at that remark, but instead she laughs. Just a little one.
Still tears my heart out all the same.
“Noted,” she says, her tone teasing. “You’re going to have to advise me on what to order, you know. I’ve never been somewhere like this.”
“The menu’s not too crazy,” I say. “This isn’t the kind of place where they’re going to feed you sea urchin foam on top of a single pine nut or some shit like that. If you don’t know what you want we’ll just order it all.”
She’s got her glass of water at her lips, and she coughs loudly as some of the drink goes down the wrong tube.
“All of it? The whole menu?”
“Yup.”
Before she can argue with me, I’ve already signalled the ma?tre d’ and told him to prepare the entire menu for our table.
I tell him to bring wine, too, and to keep Deirdre’s glass filled.
My kidney’s healing up, but I decide to forgo the booze tonight, figuring I’d better not push my luck if I want to make it down that aisle in two weeks with no issues.
Plus, I drove us here, and I’m not about to get plastered and get behind the wheel with such precious fucking cargo.
My ribs are doing better lately, too, but they still give the occasional twinge. Same with my fractured hand.
Soon enough, the food starts coming, plate after plate of appetizers and entrees that make Deirdre’s eyes just about bug out of her head.
There are individually seared scallops with garlic mascarpone drizzle, slices of raw steak served with a rosemary balsamic glaze, fall-off-the-bone braised lamb shank, freshly hand-shaped pasta with pear and gorgonzola cream sauce, bowls of lobster bisque, and pristine little salads with jewel-coloured vegetables and fruits.
Every time Deirdre tries something new, she says, “Oh my God, that’s my favourite thing.” Then she tries something else and says, “No, wait, that’s my favourite thing!”
It’s fucking adorable. I barely eat, I’m so focused on watching her take her cute little bites.
She drinks her wine too, barely noticing the ma?tre d’ who comes to replenish it whenever it gets low.
Throughout the meal her cheeks get more and more pink, her voice and gestures more animated than usual.
I don’t know if it’s the wine or the present I got her or what, but she seems to be opening up to me more.
Chatting away like a bird chirping on a branch.
She tells me all about the wedding stuff she’s worked on with Valentina, and what’s going on at school.
“I have to go to a live music performance,” she tells me before popping a bite of the lamb into her mouth.
Her eyes flutter closed and she moans quietly, making my dick twitch in my pants.
I stare at her mouth as she slowly chews and swallows.
Most of her lipstick is gone now, leaving behind a ferociously erotic stain of colour that makes me want to lick her lips.
Or bite them.
“What kind of performance?” I ask her, trying to focus on what she’s saying instead of getting distracted remembering what it was like having those lips wrapped around my cock.
“Any kind of live music performance. I have no idea what I’m going to do.”
“Did it not occur to you that I could help you with that?”
She blinks slowly at me.
“Really? I didn’t think I’d be allowed.”
“I let you out for a nice dinner tonight, didn’t I?”
“Well, yes. I guess so…” She takes a big swig of wine.
“Now that Darragh’s not pissing bullets all over this city trying to mark his territory, you’ll have a little bit more freedom, so long as I or one of my men is chaperoning you,” I tell her. “We can probably even get the music performance sorted out tonight.”
“Really? Why, where would we go tonight?”
“I have a place.”
“Alright. That works. I wondered if I’d have to use our wedding for the project, in case there was a live band there.” Her liveliness fades slightly. “I can’t believe Willow won’t be there.”
“Willow Callahan?”
“Yeah,” she says dully.
“I saw her that day at Darragh’s.”
She instantly straightens in her chair.
“You did? Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands, her eyes-overbright.
“Well, I was a little busy trying not to die of sepsis,” I remind her until she looks down at her plate, chastened. “I overheard her papà telling her that he’s sending her to stay with family in Ireland.”
“You’re kidding!” she breathes. “Wow. I knew she had an aunt over there, but I never thought she’d actually have to go there.
” She tugs at a stray curl, looking pensive and sad at the same time.
“I haven’t heard from her much since my birthday.
Her dad took away her phone. She was able to send me a couple of emails, but it’s been total radio silence lately. I wonder if she’s already gone…”
“It’s been a couple of weeks since then. And her papà didn’t exactly sound like he was going to fuck around much. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got her on a plane that night.”
Deirdre blows out a breath through tight lips that makes me think she’s trying not to cry.
“We always promised that we’d be each other’s maids of honour,” she says quietly.
“You’ll have Valentina,” I tell her, “and Lucia and Giulia if you want.”
“Yeah… I guess…” She gives me a guarded look.
“What is it?”
“If I… If I had another friend I wanted to invite… Could she come to the wedding? Or even be a bridesmaid? There’s no way Willow will be there. I know that. But it would be so nice to have somebody else I know there.”
“You know me.”
“Of course I do. For better or worse,” she adds, but she smiles softly while she says it.
“Who did you want to invite?”
“One of the girls I go to school with. Annabelle Choi.”
“I’ll have Enzo take a harder look at her. If he clears her, then sure.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” I say. “Why are you always so surprised when I allow you shit like that?”
She snorts and takes another sip of wine.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” she asks with a throaty laugh.
Before I can reply, the ma?tre d’ and servers start bringing over desserts, sweeping away the other empty plates.
“More food? I can’t eat a single bite!” Deirdre exclaims, throwing up her hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Bring her some Amaro,” I say to the servers. One of them returns swiftly with the amber liquid in a tulip-shaped crystal glass.
“What’s Amaro?” she asks, taking the glass and peering at it suspiciously.
“It is an Italian digestif, Mrs. Titone,” the ma?tre d’ replies. “It is bitter-sweet and infused with various aromatic herbs. It helps settle the stomach after a large meal.”
“Well, I definitely need that,” Deirdre laughs. She takes a small sip, then makes a sound of pleasure and takes another, larger one.
“Good?” I ask her.
“Very! It’s like port or icewine or something, but not as sweet.”
“Glad you like it. Now eat your dessert.”
She laughs again, but makes an effort to try everything they’ve brought out. Bites of goldenberry-topped cheesecake, crème brulée sprinkled with candied orange, and dark chocolate mousse with a shiny apricot syrup glaze.
“OK, now I’m seriously done,” she says, collapsing back against her chair. “I feel like I’m about to go into a food coma.”
“Don’t go comatose on me yet,” I tell her, rising from the table and offering her my hand. “We have one more stop tonight.”
“Where?” she asks, taking my hand letting me haul her upright. She wobbles a little bit, and I steady her, drawing her against my chest for a scorching moment that makes me want to say fuck the rest of the night, I’m taking her home now.
“You’ll see,” I murmur into her fragrant hair.
She doesn’t figure it out, though, until we’re walking right up to the doors of the Four Seasons Centre for Performing Arts.