7. Thorne
THORNE
I’ve checked my watch several times in the last fifteen minutes. Each and every glance is just a reminder of how pathetic it is to be sitting at this Michelin-starred restaurant alone at a table set for two.
I asked Elsbeth out to dinner a few weeks ago, before the harvest ritual.
Now, I regret not canceling. But my mother taught me to be a gentleman, and gentlemen do not withdraw invitations the day of unless it’s life or death.
Though, I would argue that being distracted by the constant nagging inner monologue and recount of last night could be seen as ungentlemanly.
My notifications are empty and the thread of sparse texts we’ve exchanged mocks me further as I refresh them.
I don’t know what I’m hoping for. If she’s ghosting me, she won’t send a text.
If she’s in trouble somewhere, she likely has more pressing concerns than the date she’s late for.
Dealing with rejection isn’t considered my strong suit.
When I finally dare to stand from the table, I catch sight of the hostess leading Elsbeth over to me.
The sight of her in a skintight black dress makes me forget any malice that was torturing me moments ago.
Waves of her auburn hair flow over her bare, freckled shoulders and frames her favorite necklace that sits on her chest.
Elsbeth is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met.
It’s rare to see her outside of the gym, and the few times I’ve caught her in passing on campus, she’s been dressed casually for class.
Tonight, she’s a seductress in that dress and a pair of stilettos that make me want to humiliate myself in the middle of this restaurant.
The gently smudged makeup around her eyes makes the entrancing green of them brighter. I move to her side to pull out her chair, fumbling to straighten its legs and present the seat to her like a throne.
“I’m sorry I’m a bit late. Traffic was a nightmare,” she says, sitting down and giving me a sheepish smile with her apology.
The hostess nods as I offer a twenty between my fingers for delivering me the one thing I’m interested in devouring.
I’ve seen her in skimpier work-out outfits for months, but the way her dress clings to the curves of her hips reminds me of sculptures of Venus.
Her soft and succulent body makes me wonder if the impressions of my fingertips will mimic those thousands-year-old marble statues in the Acropolis.
“Not a problem,” I reply and take my seat across from her.
Her eyes drop to the wine list, but I’ve already ordered a bottle of 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild that’s been breathing with the sommelier.
“Wow, I don’t think I recognize any of these.” Her gaze drifts back to the top then to me as if she asked a question.
“Red or white?” I ask, holding out a hand for the menu.
She purses her deep red lips for a moment while she thinks of her answer. “Red.”
“How dry?”
“As a desert.”
The corner of my mouth tips up. “I have the perfect one.”
I send a look to the sommelier. She nods and saunters over with two wide glasses and the neck of the bottle dangling between her fingers.
Tableside, she pours Elsbeth’s glass first, swirls it, then sets it in front of her.
The action is repeated for me before the expert dives into an explanation of the grapes, vintage, tannins, region, and about a million other descriptors that don’t make the deep plum-colored alcohol any less bitter—it’s frankly the most atrocious thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.
“Thank you.” I tip the sommelier generously for their fruitless education, and they head off to drone on to someone else who has paid far too much for a bottle of old, fermented juice.
Elsbeth takes a long sip then holds it up to admire the legs on the inside of the glass.
“Are you a wine guy?” she asks before taking another drink.
“Admittedly, no. But I can appreciate a good one.”
“Is this a good one?”
She tilts her head and watches me as if she knows that is a diplomatic answer. I can’t help but laugh.
“In price, yes.” I circle the rim of my glass with my finger. “But in taste . . . not for me.”
She nods, bringing the rim to her lips again with a pause, like she’s surveying me before finishing the small portion.
“Do you like it?” My need for her approval comes from an unknown place, but the small pull of her lips says she’s pleased by the concern.
“I don’t know much about wine. But I know that you picked it for a reason and the effort and forethought is more impactful than the bottle.”
Fuck. That sort of validation will bring me to my knees. And I’m quite good on my knees. If she keeps stroking my ego, maybe we’ll find out how good.
“You’re giving me too much credit.” I bring my glass up to my lips again, this time taking a large gulp to finish it off.
Her nose wrinkles. “Well, the bar is in Hell. Any man who takes a break from thinking of only himself for five minutes is a catch.”
Elsbeth doesn’t strike me as a woman who would ever allow an unworthy man anywhere close to her, but then again, the competition is slim.
Every guy on campus is more interested in getting laid and their next career opportunity than being a decent man.
Being raised in a coven lead by our matriarchy helped stave off the influence of the “red-pill bros” and “incel alpha males,” but even the men of the coven have fallen victim to the egos pushed on them by the outside world.
Clayton Elwell comes to mind and I quickly change the subject to not burst the illusion of freedom for the night.
“Fall break is around the corner. Do you have any plans?” It’s a safe topic. Most of my classmates will be spending next week on a hot, sandy beach somewhere to escape the late fall chill that’s aggressively gripping Boston. “I’m looking forward to the gym being empty.”
I pick up the wine bottle and fill her glass to the point that the sommelier would surely scold me. I check over my shoulder to see that she’s still distracted across the room, so I take full advantage, splashing a bit more in.
Elsbeth giggles at me but takes a large gulp of the replenished wine, bringing it to a more appropriate level.
“My family isn’t expecting me to visit,” she answers, flipping her hair over her shoulder and leaning her arms on the edge of the table. “I’ll have my usual call with my mother on Sunday, but for once, I’ll have the entire apartment to myself for the week.”
“Won’t you be lonely?”
I can’t decipher the emotion on her face, but she reaches up and holds the locket at her throat between her fingers and strokes the etching on the backside with the pad of her thumb.
She picks up the small menu from her plate.
The prefixed options keep her attention for a bit longer than necessary before she answers with what sounds like a rehearsed statement.
“I’ve never been bored in my own company. ”
“I can’t imagine anyone has.” I tilt my head, and she comes back to me, a smile brightening her face once again.
The offer to entertain her in any capacity she’d allow sits heavy on my tongue, but I refrain from sounding like a desperate loser with no friends or plans.
Though, lounging in bed with Elsbeth while I recover from transferring magic throughout the coven sounds like the perfect way to spend the break.
“You’ve barely spent time with me. How do you know I’m not a huge bore?” Her coy flirtation rouses my hope.
“I am an excellent judge of character, and you are more fascinating to me than you could know.”
Her cheeks redden and she smiles. A full smile that I suspect she couldn’t hold back.
“You’re such a smooth talker outside of the gym.”
“Are you suggesting I don’t have gym game?” I tease, both of us finding the ease we typically have during daylight hours.
“As if getting a date while you’re half naked looking the way you do requires any sort of charisma, least of all for the Hawthorne Bishop. You should see the stares I get when I’m spotting you.” She giggles again, and the challenge to keep from making a fool out of myself returns.
“I’ve never noticed. I don’t see anyone else when you’re around.”
Her mouth opens, amusement and flattery making her light up again. That triumph is short-lived because the waiter appears at the side of our table, ready to take our order.
A bottle of wine, cocktails, appetizers, and dinner later, the conversation has eased into dessert.
“I know it’s cliché,” she says around the tip of her spoon, “ but crème br?lée will always feel sinful. I can’t resist the crunch of the sugar in the cold custard.”
Sharing food reminds me all too much of Lady and the Tramp.
Splitting the smallest portion of poached custard with a dash of practically burnt sugar overtop isn’t my idea of a dessert either, but I’m not ready for the evening to end.
In fact, I’m tempted to order a second dessert, but that might be considered kidnapping.
She has class in the morning and has a paper to finish before going to bed.
Level heads would be reminded that I also have work to complete when I get back to the manor.
But the way her slim fingers keep circling the soft pulse point on my wrist paired with the visual of her beautiful lips spread on the back of her spoon has driven all practicality out of my mind.
Procrastination between her legs would be worth the missed assignment grade.
“You grew up in Boston?” she asks, glossing over the fact that I’ve been staring at her mouth for too long.
“My family has deep roots in the area,” I answer, shoving a thick mound of crème in my mouth.
“You never thought about moving away?” Her head tilts and a small lock of hair falls over her shoulder.
Before I can fight the impulse, my hand reaches over the table and tucks it behind her ear. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”
Her cheeks flush. “That must be nice. To know yourself so well.”