Chapter 8 #2
He slipped ahead at the last second to get the door, and I rewarded him with a grin of approval as I swept past.
I loved this restaurant. It was a temple to exclusivity with tinted glass windows, polished brass doors, and waitstaff in immaculate black livery.
Inside, velvet furnishings basked in candlelight, and the air smelled faintly of saffron.
The dining room was full but hushed, every conversation kept to a reverent murmur.
The hostess looked up as we entered, and her eyes brightened with recognition.
“Luxe,” she said, her voice pitched low to match the quiet of the space. “Welcome back. Your usual table is ready.”
Mercer turned toward me with one brow arched. I flashed him another smile then followed the hostess into the velvet-and-gold labyrinth.
The tables here were like miniature stages, each set beneath its own spotlight. The meal unfolded in acts, courses delivered with flair, each more fanciful than the last. No wonder I loved it. It was familiar, and maybe a bit refreshing to sit in the audience instead of commanding it.
When we arrived at our table, I was ready to flounce into my seat. But Mercer swept in again, pulling my chair out and holding it. I peered at him, lips twitching as I sat and let him push me in.
I was starting to wonder, or maybe worry, what he thought was going on here.
I didn’t mind the princess treatment. Often, I demanded it, but that was from rich men with nothing better to do than spoil me.
This guy, former soldier, ex-angel security, seemed to be handling this casual encounter in a more than casual way.
He sat across from me, and for a moment, we studied each other.
At least, I studied him. He had a strong jaw and nose, deep-set, intelligent eyes, and a bit of scruff he must have picked up since his discharge.
Beck’s jacket creased and strained as he draped his napkin across his lap and scooted his chair closer to the table.
He wasn’t as built as Oz, but he’d definitely seen the inside of a gym.
I had a litany of questions lined up, but with him being so damn polite, it felt like I owed him some small talk first.
“I like your bike,” I offered, leaning my elbow on the table.
“Thanks.”
My grin spread. “Pretty sure riding over here with my cock tucked between your ass cheeks is the closest I’ve ever come to topping.”
Mercer looked like he might choke on air, and that was when our server arrived, smiling sunnily and asking about drinks.
I rescued Mercer before he had to croak out an answer. “We’ll have a bottle of the Chateau Margaux,” I said. “And the chef’s special. Two of them.”
The server dipped her head and whisked away, leaving us to bask in our private spotlight.
Bending in, I cupped my chin in the hand I had propped on the table and tipped my head at my dinner companion. “What do you think of the club?”
Mercer cleared his throat. “It’s lively.”
I snorted. “And you’re tactful. You can be honest with me. Or…” I dragged a finger across the linen tablecloth. “We can make this interesting. Wanna play a game?”
His lips pinched. Reluctant, and wisely so. “Okay.”
“Two truths and a lie.”
He groaned.
“Are two truths too much for you?” I teased. “Make them all lies then; I won’t know any better.”
The corner of his mouth curled. “All right.”
I sat forward, gleeful. “You go first.”
Mercer glanced around the restaurant, still taking in the lavish trimmings and trappings. He must have been used to a bit of glitz, having spent time in the Basilica, but in my opinion, this place was subtler in its glamor, and classier by default.
“I’m a Nevada native,” he said at length. “Served ten years in the Marines as a combat medic. My favorite color is green.”
Cupping my hand to my mouth, I pretended to yawn. “Riveting.”
Mercer’s brows pulled together. “What?”
“The interview’s over, Mercy. I don’t want your height, weight, and shoe size. Tell me something interesting. Something unhinged.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. He glanced aside, mentally fishing, then he muttered, “I’m scared of dogs.”
My eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Is that the lie?”
“No.”
I gave him a lengthy once-over—broad shoulders, scarred hands, built like he could wrestle a bear—and tried to picture him bolting from a yappy fluffball. The image almost made me choke on my laughter. “All dogs? Because I get like… Cane Corsos or Rottweilers. But what about a Pekingese?”
He gave a tiny shrug, and his gaze dropped to the table. “Not a fan.”
“You’re a Marine.” I said it like he needed reminding, like the title should grant him immunity from fear.
His eyes flicked up. They were rich brown and could have been warm, but now they were flat and firm. “I used to be a Marine.”
My grin faltered, leaving me staring at him a moment too long before I shook it off, recalling something else I’d seen on his résumé. “You have a Purple Heart. What’d you earn that for?”
He shifted as the gap I’d found in his armor gaped wide. “I think it’s your turn now.”
My palms raised in surrender. “Okay, all right, you get a pass.” Leaning back, I crossed one leg over the other, letting my bubble dress ride scandalously high.
“I’m from Chicago. I’m an only child, which explains my unquenchable thirst for attention.
Single mom upbringing gave me daddy issues but killer fashion sense.
And ah…” My nose crinkled. “I’m allergic to shellfish. ”
“That was four.”
“What can I say?” I replied. “I’m a giver.”
His brow creased. “All truths?”
I nodded. “Seems we’re a couple of honest fellows after all.”
The server returned with plates impeccably balanced, and conversation died as the food became the main event.
Every bite was perfect, and I’d polished off more than my share of the wine before I realized it.
By the time our desserts arrived, I was loose and warm, the glow of good food and pleasant company settling under my skin.
We sat in the lull, waiting for the check, when I finally said, “Thank you again for helping me. And Elliot.”
Mercer paused to think. “Is that Hemlock?”
“Onstage Hemlock. Offstage Elliot.”
He nodded slowly. “How is he?”
I sighed and lifted my wine glass for a sip. “Moody. Broody. But that’s pretty normal. He’ll be all right.”
Mercer gave another small nod as his eyes shifted back to me. “What about you?”
“Me?” I blinked. “I’m fine.”
“I meant… onstage Luxe, right? What about offstage?”
My cheeks warmed. Had I really forgotten to mention?
“Darby.”
He smiled. Maybe the best one of the night. “That’s a pretty name.”
Heat crawled up the sides of my throat, and I reached to my hair, combing it over the tips of my ears so he wouldn’t see them turning red.
It wasn’t the kind of flattery I was used to.
Less angled, more direct. We’d made it through an entire meal without him making anything that might qualify as an advance.
No under-table footsies or over-table grabs.
He’d stolen a few glances between bites or while tipping his drink back, but it was all eyes and no hands, and I couldn’t fault a guy for window shopping.
When the server returned with the check, the restaurant owner was hot on her heels. Charles Fincannon, stately and svelte, cut a purposeful path toward our table. The sight of him caused the sweetness of the evening to curdle sour.
I knew what I’d set up. This meal wasn’t coming out of my pocket or Beck’s bank account; it was coming out of my ass. I’d chosen the restaurant. Put my name on the list. Set expectations.
But now… I wasn’t so sure.
Mercer had sat across from me all night, letting me poke and prod and tease him every which way. He’d asked me my name. If I left him to watch me settle the bill with a quick little favor-trade, what message would that send?
Probably not the one I wanted him to receive.
And damn it, I had to work with the guy.
The server and Charles drew to a stop beside our table, and I sprang up so quickly my napkin slid out of my lap.
“Charles, hi.” I struck a pose, flaunting the dress I’d known he would like.