Chapter 9
NINE
Aurora
After getting turned on delivering towels to Mr. Black yesterday, I went home and signed up to a couple of dating apps.
I clearly need to get laid.
Or at least I need not to be flirting with guests. Because…that’s ridiculous and a good way to get sent back to England early.
Was I flirting?
Was he?
I’m not sure. But it doesn’t matter. Now I’m waiting for my date to arrive.
Back in the UK, I would message with a guy for a week, maybe two, before I decided whether or not I wanted to meet him, but in New York, I’m diving right in.
I matched with a guy yesterday and now I’m sitting in a restaurant a block away from my apartment, waiting to have dinner with him.
I check the time on my phone. He’s not late, but he’s about to be.
It’s one minute to eight, which is when we said we’d meet. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.
I open the menu and try to decide what I’m going to order.
Something that I won’t drop down my new dress that I bought for this evening.
It’s electric blue and backless. It looks nice enough from the front, but then you turn and there’s a big scooped back.
It’s much sexier than anything I’d wear back at home.
But I’m not at home. I’m in New York City.
I’m shaking things up, including my wardrobe.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the hostess bringing someone through from the front. This must be my date.
I smile and look over—and come face to face with Deacon Black.
What is happening?
Why is he here?
He’s not my date.
Is he?
No, I’ve seen pictures of my date. He’s blond and says he’s six-one, which means he’s five-eleven. Deacon Black is at least six-three.
Mr. Black sees me as the hostess passes my table. His eyes dart from me to the empty chair opposite me and then back to my face. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t smile.
“Your usual table, Mr. Black,” the hostess says, as she shows him to a table for two a couple of tables away.
She hands him a menu and he doesn’t open it, he just places it down on the table.
This date was supposed to be distracting me from the man across the restaurant, not bring me into closer proximity to him.
But no doubt Mr. Black is waiting for his own date to arrive.
I check the time on my phone again. My date is now late. I hate that. But this isn’t Chilternshire. He’s probably navigating the traffic.
I check the app to make sure there aren’t any messages I’ve missed, but there’s nothing.
He must be on his way.
I study the menu like I’m going to be tested on it tomorrow. I just don’t want to look up. I don’t want to get caught in Mr. Black’s stare.
I see the hostess approach my table and my shoulders sag with relief. Finally my date has arrived. But when I look up, she’s showing a couple to the table next to mine.
My date is now ten minutes late. I check the app again.
There’s still no message from him. Maybe he’s traveling on the subway.
I’m not sure if they have internet down there.
I hope he’s coming. Am I about to be stood up?
It would be bad enough if I had to ask for the bill for my cocktail, with all the restaurant staff knowing I’ve been stood up.
But with Mr. Black there? It feels extra embarrassing.
I’m going to have to sit and watch while he greets his date.
The waitress approaches my table for the second time. “Can I get you anything while you wait?” she asks.
I shake my head a little, dread filling my stomach as realization dawns.
I think I may have been stood up.
In front of Deacon Black.
I’m not going to leave it more than fifteen minutes. At quarter past eight, I’m leaving. There’s no way I’m hanging around any longer.
Each minute that passes feels like an hour.
I keep refreshing the app, but there are no new messages.
I’m not going to message him and ask where he is.
Our messages from last night were really clear.
Eight o’clock at the French Kitchen. I close the menu and check the name of the restaurant, just to make sure I’m in the right place.
It gets to eight fifteen. I glance up at the door, one last time. Nothing. Nobody.
I catch the waitress’s eye and mouth that I want the bill.
I can’t look in Mr. Black’s direction, it’s too humiliating.
I’ve spent a grand total of five dollars and forty-six cents. I leave ten dollars in cash, so she doesn’t have to bring the machine over. It feels like that would draw attention to the fact that I’m leaving a restaurant without eating anything.
I stand up, take my bag. When I try to head to the exit, a diner has pushed their chair away from their table and is leaning back, and I can’t get through.
To add insult to injury, I’m going to have to walk right past Mr. Black’s table.
I close my eyes in a long blink before pulling in a breath and turning around.
This is going to be fine. It’s no big deal. I’m just going to pretend he’s not here.
I’m almost past his table when, out of nowhere, he says, “Aurora.”
My heart switches gear and clatters against my chest and I freeze.
How does he know my name?
I snap my head around to check I’m not hearing things. He’s looking right at me with those blue, blue eyes.
“Hi,” I say, in a panic.
“Please join me,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. What? Why on earth would he want me to join him?
He glances at the empty chair opposite him but doesn’t say any more.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” I say.
“Please sit,” he says, in a tone that conveys he doesn’t want me to argue with him.
My stomach clenches. He’s serious. But why? Does he want me to keep the seat warm for whichever woman he has joining him? Does he want to embarrass me?
I don’t understand.
But Mr. Black is one of the most important guests in the hotel. I also don’t want to upset him. Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m intrigued by him.
He doesn’t make a fuss by standing up and pulling out my chair, and even though some people might think it’s rude, I’m grateful. I don’t want to draw more attention to myself tonight.
“Will you eat?” he asks, then takes the menu from the table and opens it.
I don’t know what to say. The man opposite me is basically a stranger. Why is he asking me to have dinner?
I need to make my excuses and leave…but…but I don’t want to.
Why am I thinking about having dinner with him?
“How do you know I haven’t eaten?” I ask.
He looks up from his menu and then looks down again, like he can’t even be bothered to respond to that question. He’s so confident it’s unnerving.
At his lack of response, a ribbon of desire snakes down my spine and my nipples pebble against my dress. The thing about a backless dress is, it’s difficult to find a bra that works.
“Would you like some wine?” he asks. “The Argentinian Malbec is very good.”
“Sure,” I say. I have the day off tomorrow. A glass of wine can’t hurt.
“What would you like to eat?” Maybe I’m imagining it, but it feels like he’s looking at me as if he’s asking how many times I want to climax tonight.
My cheeks heat at his question, and I swear I catch the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.
Does he know what I’m thinking?
Does he know what he’s doing?
Does he know that all I can think about when I see him is how he looked when he was at the door of his room, bare-chested?
That I wonder what it is he does to the women he sleeps with to make them scream like Ms. Gordon did?
Does he know that I’m wondering how he kisses? How his skin would feel against mine?
“I don’t mind,” I say, too consumed by all the thoughts racing through my head to make a choice from a menu where everything looks delicious.
I’m still not quite sure why I’m sitting here, about to have dinner with the man who spilled coffee on me.
Although his apology was…surprising, and it made it easy to forgive him. “It all looks good.”
He stares at me for a beat before he says, “It all tastes good.” His gaze flickers to my lips and then back to my eyes. “I’ve eaten everything on this menu.”
Everything? His confession breaks this…tension or chemistry or whatever it is between us, and I smile. “Are you serious?”
“I eat here a lot when I’m staying at the hotel. It’s close by and good.”
“You don’t like the hotel restaurant?”
His eyebrows lift. “Room service is okay when I’m busy. But, not particularly. Don’t tell anyone.” He grins, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen him smile. It suits him.
I smile back and start to relax. Just a little. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
The waitress comes and takes our order. Mr. Black orders the steak and the chicken and I don’t know which is for me.
“Speaking of secrets,” I say. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to be having dinner with a hotel guest.”
He stares at me. “Why not?”
“I’m sure it’s probably against hotel policy.”
“Well, we can keep this between us,” he says, and our eyes lock and neither of us speak for what seems like minutes. We just sit there staring at each other like that’s what people who barely know each other do.
Eventually the waitress interrupts and tops up our wine and our water.
When she leaves, I tilt my head. “As we’re sharing secrets, can I ask you a question?”
“You want to know my secrets?” His stare is hypnotic, and I can’t look away.
I want to know all his secrets.
“Yes.” I pause. “One in particular. Where do you go on the nights you don’t spend at the hotel?”
His expression doesn’t change. “Home, of course.”
It’s an answer, but it’s not detailed enough to satisfy my curiosity. “And where’s home?”
“Over in the West Village.”
I frown. That’s not new information. Magda already told me that. I want to know why he’s not at home now. “I haven’t been in New York long, but that sounds close by?”
“Yeah, just a few blocks over.”
Our food arrives, interrupting his confession. I want to know more, but I don’t want him to think I’m being nosy.