30. Chapter Thirty - Sexual Frustration #2
The air smelled rich and expensive, layered with butter, garlic, smoked herbs, and something sweet I couldn’t quite place, while smooth jazz drifted quietly through hidden speakers as though it belonged there as much as the marble floors and gleaming chandeliers overhead.
Even the chairs looked soft enough to sink into for hours.
I inhaled in awe, completely forgetting the conversation Culver and I had been having.
“Mr. Scarbrough,” the host greeted warmly.
Culver took my hand and kissed the back of it.
“Please, this way.”
My heart pounded hard in my chest, another rush sliding through me over why so many women chased after men with money.
The way he didn’t even need a reservation because his name alone opened every door.
And it was turning me on, that kind of power drawing eyes and respect without him saying a word, filling me with a twisted thrill as we walked side by side while his gaze stayed fixed on me the entire time.
I hadn’t planned for any of this today, but it wasn’t as though I didn’t want it.
I liked surprises. And I really liked being treated like a princess.
It was cliché of me, but I couldn’t help what I liked.
We were seated in a private room where a large ebony table waited beneath the warm glow of a crystal chandelier, its golden light reflecting across polished black wood and deep burgundy walls.
The room smelled faintly of butter, herbs, expensive wine, and something smoky drifting in from the kitchen, rich enough to make my stomach tighten with hunger.
I sat across from Culver already knowing I was finally going to pry some real information out of him.It was the perfect opportunity to get to know Culver Scarbrough.
As the waiter closed the door behind us, the soft click sealed us into a cocoon of low jazz, distant clinking glasses, and muted conversations too far away to make out clearly.
“How long have y’all been in England?” I started with a basic question.
Culver remained perfectly poised, the question not seeming to bother him in the slightest.
“Ten years, give or take.”
“Where did you live before England?”
The waiter returned, slowly pouring water into our glasses, the stream catching the chandelier light like liquid crystal before he popped open a bottle of expensive champagne with a crisp hiss. Tiny bubbles fizzed at the rim as he poured.
I glanced at the label.
Dom Pérignon.
I didn’t know much about wine, but it screamed more money than my entire family lineage could probably afford.
My eyes drifted back to Culver, who waited patiently for the waiter to leave.
“We lived in Vienna before England, but our traveling takes us everywhere. Being in one place is so stifling.” His fingers brushed the stem of his glass as he spoke with effortless ease. “It makes me curious how you have never really traveled much, Ira.”
Culver’s steady eyes rested on me with a fondness that made warmth creep into my cheeks, and I puffed them out slightly in embarrassment.
I wasn’t about to let myself get distracted because I knew exactly what he was doing, trying to steer me away from questioning him.
“Is that where you were born?” I doubled down, completely bypassing his teasing.
He smirked at once, noticing I wasn’t falling for it. “No. I was born in Armenia.”
Armenia? I didn’t know much about it.
“I was actually born on January sixth, which is the Armenian Christmas holiday,” Culver continued, somehow keeping me completely enraptured by the calm way he gestured with his hands, graceful and measured as though every movement had been perfected over centuries.
“What year?” I asked, lifting my gaze back to him once his hands settled.
His mouth tipped upward with amusement. “How old do you think I am, Ira?”
Culver’s smooth tone stalled me for a second before I licked my lips.
“Twenty-four? Twenty-six? I feel like you’re older than you look.”
He lifted one shoulder in a loose shrug, a full smirk settling onto his face.
“You are more observant than you let on, little lamb.”
The server returned, setting down a scallop dish—or what I liked to call a sea-bite.
Steam curled faintly from the plate, carrying the buttery scent of seared seafood and garlic toward me. The scallop itself was golden on top with delicate crispness around the edges, glistening beneath the chandelier light. Underneath it sat a bed of peas.
I scrunched my nose at once.
I didn’t particularly like peas. They never tasted good and weren’t even filling.
“Oh, there are peas,” he hummed with a faint frown. “Take this back and ensure there are no peas on it for her.”
My eyes flew upward from the dish, and I quickly held my hand out to stop the waiter from taking it.
“No, it’s fine. I just won’t eat them. The scallop looks perfect, so don’t worry about it.”
The waiter paused silently, awaiting Culver’s response.
Culver stared at me with a mixture of amusement and wonder before finally nodding for the waiter to leave.
He didn’t say anything else, but the way he watched me made my stomach flutter.
My thoughts reeled, trying to figure out how he knew I didn’t like peas.
“How did you know it was the peas I didn’t like?” I questioned, lifting my utensils and cutting into the scallop. The texture melted apart beneath my fork, tender and buttery, practically dissolving on my tongue the second I tasted it.
Instead of answering right away, he picked up his champagne and took a slow sip. After setting the glass back down with a soft clink, he responded, “Did you know you start noticing every little detail about a person when you spend enough time around people who mean you harm?”
I shook my head because I genuinely hadn’t known that.
“I saw your eyes fixate on them, Ira.” Culver paused, watching me take another bite. “I noticed how your expression dimmed into disdain. The slight crinkle of your nose and curl of your lip gave you away.”
Once I swallowed the bite, I bit my lip, ready to ask another question, but he beat me to it.
“Enjoy dinner first. We have plenty of time for you to ask questions to your heart’s content.”
I wanted to push back against him, but instead I nodded and lowered my gaze to the plate again.
As we ate, small talk drifted easily between us. He asked about my plans in England and what I wanted to do. I just wanted to grow my content creation and become even better at dancing.
My goals were simplistic, but I loved dancing. It was cliché, sure, but I loved the freedom it gave me, the ability to express myself without words.
That was probably the most poetic I would ever get in my life.
Culver listened, though. And I really liked that about him.
He made me feel seen in a way I never had before.
As dinner eased toward its end, dessert arrived: some type of dense mousse they called Valrhona Chocolate Delice. The dark chocolate gleamed, topped with delicate gold leaf and deep red cherry compote that smelled sweet and tart all at once.
The first bite was velvety and rich, melting slowly across my tongue while the tartness of the cherries balanced the heaviness perfectly.
I felt ridiculously luxurious sitting there.
It was the most expensive restaurant I had ever been to, but Culver made it all feel effortless.
I liked that he never mocked me for not knowing things.
Somehow, he taught me how to move through places like this without ever outright explaining anything.
He led, and I followed without thinking twice.
So when he took me to an actual expensive art gallery, I melted into it completely, wandering beside him while the weight of our lunch settled warmly in my stomach.
The gallery stretched on in quiet elegance, all towering white walls and polished black marble floors that reflected the soft glow of golden overhead lights.
Massive oil paintings lined the walls in ornate antique frames, some dark and haunting, others so vivid they almost seemed alive beneath the careful brushstrokes.
Sculptures rested on stone pedestals throughout the open space, marble figures frozen mid-grief, mid-prayer, mid-love.
The air carried the faint scent of old varnish, expensive wood, and something subtly floral drifting in from hidden arrangements placed throughout the gallery.
Everything felt painfully refined, the kind of place I would’ve only ever seen rich people visit in movies, yet Culver walked through it like he belonged there. Like places built around beauty and history naturally bent around him.
My body swayed beside his while we wandered slowly from piece to piece, my shoulder occasionally brushing his arm. I kept trying to work up the courage to ask him what had been lingering in the back of my mind for far too long.
We passed a massive painting of a lioness crouched protectively over her cubs, her teeth bared in a vicious snarl toward something unseen beyond the canvas.
The detail was breathtaking, every strand of fur painted with impossible care, her golden eyes sharp with violence and devotion all at once.
Something about it struck straight through me.
For some reason, it gave me just enough boldness to finally say what I wanted.
“Culver, do you like me?”
“I thought I made my stance clear after my trip,” he smirked at me.
“Humor me,” I said, walking close beside him.
“I like everything about you,” he murmured, sliding his hand into mine and raising it above me just so he could kiss the back of my palm.
“And you?” he asked quietly, staring directly at me.