Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
kennedy
The Copper Lantern is one of Boston’s oldest restaurants. Though I doubt the place had a six-month wait for reservations in its early days.
Across from me, Cameron admires the space, wineglass in hand but not a single sip taken.
I don’t blame him for getting distracted.
The dining room has the kind of impressive architecture that only comes with age and money.
We’re seated in what must have been a front parlor, with exposed brick on one side.
The other walls are painted that deep greenish-black that wealthy Bostonians apparently loved in the nineteenth century.
He studies the crown molding and the fireplace with its carved marble mantel. There’s a copper lantern, of course, hanging nearby, but it’s genuine, tarnished, and dented, not some half-assed reproduction.
“Did you know the restaurant was a private home first?” I ask, lowering my menu. I can’t sit in silence any longer. “It was owned by a shipping merchant in the 1820s. They converted it to a restaurant after Prohibition.”
He zeroes in on me, and I nearly forget to breathe.
Cameron’s all sharp edges and intimidating in a way that makes every other guy in existence seem like a cute, fluffy puppy.
And having all that intense energy directed at me?
In an intimate setting that makes me hyperaware of my every move? It’s a lot.
“Close,” he says with a crooked smile. “But it opened in the middle of Prohibition, not after. Speakeasy first, then a legitimate restaurant once they could admit what they were doing.”
Surprise and maybe a little appreciation flow through me. I know my Boston history, and even if I’m slightly off, it’s rare anyone knows any better. Apparently, Cameron does. “Huh. How’d you know that?”
He finally takes a sip of his wine. “I studied history in college.”
Without permission, laughter bursts out of me, my hair falling in front of my face as my shoulders shake.
His grip on his drink tightens, and defensiveness creeps across his face like a shadow.
Shit.
If he wasn’t plotting my demise before, he certainly is now.
I reach out, placing my hand on his before he can retreat. “I’m not laughing at you, Cameron. I have a bachelor’s in history and my dad’s a historian. He’s got so many degrees they practically wallpaper his office.”
Head tipped down, he studies me from under his brow. “Oh?”
“My sisters and I are named after historical figures. Our parents chose our names based on which figure we share a birthday with,” I continue, hoping he understands that my amusement is with the irony, not his education. The coincidence simply caught me off guard.
“So you’re named Kennedy because you share a birthday with…”
“John F. Kennedy,” I supply. “My oldest sister, Amelia, shares a birthday with Amelia Earhart and my other sister, Frankie, shares a birthday with Frank Sinatra.”
A deep laugh rumbles from his chest, and the last of his stone-cold stare dissolves. He looks equal parts dumbfounded and intrigued. “Wow. That’s something.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I agree with a slanted smile.
He ducks his head in a way that’s adorably, and sort of alarmingly, bashful. “I didn’t realize you were into history.”
Humming, I consider his words. “I wouldn’t say I’m into history. More like I was indoctrinated into the field, and it was a solid prelaw major.”
Cameron freezes with his wineglass halfway to his mouth. “You went to law school?”
“Yup,” I reply, making a popping noise with the final letter. “You’re sitting across the table from a Harvard Law School dropout.”
His brows inch upward while his mouth falls open slightly.
It’s a reaction I’m used to. Surprise, mostly, that someone like me—loud and restless and always talking—could get into Harvard Law.
That’s typically followed by another assumption.
That someone like me—loud and restless and always talking—couldn’t possibly have survived it.
I could’ve. I just chose not to.
The question is written all over his face before it leaves his lips. “Why?”
It’s simple and expected, but it lands like it always does.
Why would I choose this path when I could’ve had that?
Before a painful lump can form in my throat, I take a sip of my drink, buying myself a second to consider how much I want to say. I land on the minimum. “Long story.”
He fixes me with a look that would break any spy holding secrets. “We have time, considering they haven’t brought out appetizers.”
I’m saved from answering when our server appears, dropping off a water sans ice for me (because I’m weird and like it room temperature), steak tartare on crostini, crab cakes, breaded brussels sprouts with bacon and balsamic, and a beet salad with goat cheese.
Damn. I dig right in. It’s not until I’m one crab cake and four brussels sprouts deep that I notice Cameron only eating the salad.
He’s pushing it around with his fork, taking small, careful bites while the tartare sits untouched and the crab cakes haven’t moved.
It hits me like a freight train.
“Cameron.” I set down my fork. “You can’t eat most of this.”
His eyes flick up to mine, caught. “It’s fine—”
“Did you tell them before we sat down?” I wave at the kitchen.
He shifts in his seat, grimacing a little. “Sloane said she’d call ahead to let them know, but maybe she forgot. It’s fine. I don’t want to make it a big thing. The salad’s good and I’m sure each course will come with at least one thing I can eat.”
“You’re going to eat around everything?” The words come out sharper than I mean them to. “Unless you have a fetish involving watching women stuff their faces, I will not be the only one enjoying the food.”
“It’s fine,” he says in a tone that makes it seem like he’s consoling me instead of vice versa.
It’s not fine. Not even a little. I raise my hand, signaling to the server.
“Hi, how’s everything tasting?” he asks, that practiced server smile in place.
“Great, but he can’t eat most of these,” I inform him, swirling a finger over the medley of decidedly nongluten-free apps. “He’s celiac.”
His eyes widen, his smile faltering. “Oh. Did we not…” He looks from me to Cameron. “I’m so sorry. There wasn’t a note on the reservation. Let me grab the chef. We can absolutely accommodate. Give me just a moment.”
He’s gone before either of us can respond.
Cameron’s jaw tightens, the muscles twitching. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.” I pick up my wineglass and take a deliberate sip. “You were going to sit here and eat salad for six courses like some kind of martyr.”
“I wasn’t trying to be a martyr—”
“Then what were you trying to be? Polite?” I angle forward. “It’s a restaurant. Their one job is to feed you. You’re not being difficult by being celiac.”
He looks down at his plate, like he’s used to being a burden because he has unique dietary needs. An ache forms in my throat. His facial expressions and changes in body language are subtle, but not so subtle that I don’t see every one.
Within minutes, the server returns with the chef, a woman in her forties with kind eyes and flour on her apron.
“I am so sorry about the mix-up,” she says, directing her attention to Cameron.
“I’m preparing a separate tasting menu for you.
Everything will be gluten-free with no cross-contamination. ”
He nods, his ears going pink and his imposing frame somehow looking smaller. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Of course.” She smiles warmly before heading back to the kitchen.
Soon after, the server sets a fresh plate of appetizers on the table. The gluten-free options are just as beautiful as all the others. Maybe more so.
Cameron stares at his options for a moment, silent, before picking up his fork and eventually digging in.
When he’s had three or four bites of seared scallops, I clear my throat. “Better?”
A look of surprised relief flickers on his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “Yeah.”
We eat our appetizers in silence, and to no one’s surprise, I’m the one who breaks it. I don’t mind silence as a general concept, but I can’t handle it with Cameron. His presence is so imposing, like a weight sitting on my chest, and the only way to breathe is to, well, babble.
“Have you ever started a fight on ice?”
He looks up from his plate, fork halfway to his mouth. “It’s the number-one unspoken rule that you don’t fuck with a goalie,” he tells me. “And if you do, someone else on the team will kick your teeth in, because goalies don’t really fight.”
Oh.
I go back to my food, my face heating with embarrassment, and make it another forty-five seconds before the next question erupts from inside me. “You have a lot of tattoos. How do you decide which ones to get and where to put them?”
He doesn’t look up from where he’s cutting into a scallop. “Tell me why you dropped out of law school.”
“I’m asking a question.”
“So am I.”
My fork clinks against my plate as I sag, and I consider launching it at him. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because—” I stop, biting the inside of my cheek. “It just is.”
I’m not embarrassed about dropping out of law school. Far from it, actually. But thinking about it reminds me that I gave up what would have likely been a stable career to pursue a passion. And I haven’t made it nearly as far as I’d hoped.
He continues to enjoy his food with infuriating calm, and the quiet returns.
I last maybe thirty seconds this time. “Do you ever get bored? Standing in the goal while everyone else is doing their thing on the ice?”
“Kennedy.”
“What?”
“Answer my question first.”
“This is stupid,” I mutter, but I shift in my seat. “I’m trying to have a conversation.”
“So have one.” He meets my eye. “Why’d you drop out?”
Stubborn man.
I open my mouth, then close it, deciding to take a page from his playbook and focus on my food, then turn another question around on him. “Why should I tell you if you won’t even tell me why you and your ex broke up?”