Chapter 15 Ronan #2
But I phoned in a couple of favors and got us a good table the same night.
The restaurant’s fancy and upscale, the interior made up of dark wood paneling and leather seating, combining traditional fine dining with a gritty western ranch vibe. Vintage cowboy art and old photographs of cattle drives plaster the walls, and the lighting’s naturally warm and golden toned.
The young hostess shows us to our table near the back, away from the main crowd. It’s intimate and private like I hoped.
I hold out Simone’s chair for her, and she pauses, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.
“Thank you,” she says softly as she sits.
“Don’t mention it.”
I take my seat across from her, a grin tugging at my mouth. “Sometimes I can be a gentleman and behave myself.”
“So miracles do happen.”
I laugh without thinking about it. “You gonna spend the rest of our lives busting my balls like that?”
“Wit and wordplay are my only weapons in an arranged marriage like ours,” she answers smoothly.
Our server arrives, pouring us each a glass of red wine. I wait ’til she’s gone before I lean forward.
“What do you mean by that?”
Simone gently folds her cloth napkin in her lap, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“Hey,” I say, reaching across the table and grabbing her hand.
The gesture forces her to go still and her gaze to flick up to mine.
“I get this hasn’t been easy. Neither of us exactly had this on our bingo card.
We’re still adjusting. Marriage is a pretty serious step… and we got married right after hello.”
She releases a rare, small laugh—the first time she’s ever laughed at anything I’ve said. The sound is soft and genuine, and it draws me in.
It makes me even more certain I want to do it again. I want to earn more out of her.
“That’s probably the understatement of the century,” she says finally. “One day I wasn’t even sure I’d ever get married. Twenty-four hours later, I was engaged. Then married within the week.”
I lean back in my chair, releasing her hand and steepling my own. Our server has delivered us some Caesar salads, and Simone has taken another sip of her wine.
An idea comes to me to address the issue we’ve identified.
“So… tell me more about yourself.”
She raises a brow. “You’re serious?”
“Pretend this is our first date,” I say. “And we’re not even married. We’re meeting each other for the first time. Again. What would you say to me?”
“Ronan…” she shakes her head as if finding the prospect ridiculous.
“Humor me.”
“Okay,” she says with a small sigh. “Um… well, I’m Simone Ashante Langston. I’m twenty-five. I graduated from NYU and majored in communications and marketing. It’s what I do for a living—I’m the Public Relations Director for Langston Defense Solutions.”
I nod, taking a drink from my wine. “You’re that lady who finessed the press when they had all those questions about the recent embezzlement scandal.”
It’s an off-color remark, but it’s enough to earn my second real laugh out of her. Her eyes light up, and her expression softens.
“I guess I did finesse them, didn’t I? Call it a talent.”
“You do have a talented tongue,” I say, unable to resist.
She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling. “I walked right into that one. Okay, your turn. What about you? You’re meeting me for the first time. Tell me about yourself.”
I take my time answering, relaxed in my chair, scrubbing a hand at my jaw to fight off a grin. “I’m Ronan Callahan, and I’m a businessman.”
“What kind of business?” she asks, playing along.
“Don’t ask me what business,” I say, my tone mock-serious. “Because it’s none of your business what’s my business. But what I can tell you is I enjoy spoiling a beautiful woman like yourself. Which is all that matters.”
She almost chokes on the mouthful of salad she’s eating, trying to fight off a laugh. “Do you normally use those kinds of lines on women?”
“Honestly? No. Most women in my world already know who I am. They’re ready to drop their panties as soon as we’re alone. But for a woman like you? Yes.”
Her brows raise in surprise. “What kind of woman am I?”
“One that’s not easily impressed,” I say. “Or won over. Which makes it more special when you laugh and smile.”
She almost smiles again before catching herself. “Okay, I’ll admit one thing, Callahan. You’ve got some swag. It’s… it’s hard to resist at times.”
Our steaks arrive—huge ribeyes, thick and juicy and expertly seasoned. The meat is charred on the outside, pink and tender on the inside, accompanied by garlic mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus.
Simone has an appetite for being such a prim and proper princess. She slices into her ribeye and loads some mashed potatoes with it in one bite, closing her eyes briefly as she chews.
I laugh watching her.
Her eyes pop open. “What’s so funny?”
“I didn’t expect you to dig right in like that.”
“You are my husband. I don’t have to pretend to eat like a bird around you like some women do on dates.”
“I prefer you keep it real,” I admit with a half-shrug. “If you want to chug that wine and wipe your plate clean, do it, princess. It’s sorta sexy watching a woman like you eat steak like that.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Reminds me of a time I couldn’t.
When I was a teenager, my parents had me competing in beauty pageants.
I was frequently weighed in and stuffed into all sorts of tight evening gowns and swimsuits.
I could never really eat what I wanted.” She pauses, cutting another thick piece of steak.
“When I turned twenty and was no longer eligible for the teen pageants, I vowed never again. I’ve been enjoying a good succulent ribeye as often as possible since. ”
“I’ve never found pageant women attractive. They’re too polished.”
“Seems to be a pattern of yours. You seem to like gritty and real.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I counter. “Why would I want something fake and sanitized? That’s what I respect about you. Even if we damn near strangle each other most of the time. At least you keep it real with me. You don’t pretend to like me like many women would. You let me know you hate my guts.”
She considers this, her expression thoughtful. “I guess… I could say the same. With Heath, he was always on his best behavior. Always so concerned with image and perception. That doesn’t seem to matter at all to you. Which is… a little refreshing.”
I hold her gaze, and for a moment, the noise of the restaurant fades. It’s just me and her, sitting across from each other, actually talking.
Actually connecting for once.
It feels like we’re finally finding some common ground. We’re finally establishing some kind of rapport. Maybe even some ironic fondness for each other.
Judging by how Simone smirks as she diverts her attention back to her steak, she finds it as unexpected as I do.
Yet here we are, enjoying a dinner together. Enjoying each other’s company.
Just the two of us.
We leave the Chophouse with Simone clutching my arm. She accepted it after I offered, and now her hand is tucked into the crook of my elbow as we walk down the sidewalk.
She shudders in the December cold, even with her peacoat on, looking up at me. “Where are we headed now?”
“So I was thinking,” I answer on a mysterious air. “I know you like going to your friend’s art gallery. I figured maybe I could take you to a different one in Manhattan. Since you missed her event last month. As a way to make it up to you. It’s not the same, obviously, but it’s something.”
Simone smiles brightly, her entire face beautifully lit up. “I’d like that.”
We head to a place called The Galleria, which features light installations in the winter. The gallery is sleek and modern, dark but brightly lit all at the same time, with different twinkling lights and installations illuminating otherwise shadowy rooms.
It’s like walking through an immersive and whimsical dream.
Beautiful in an odd Tim Burton sorta way.
Simone clutches my arm the entire time as we move from room to room, admiring the displays.
One installation is made entirely of suspended glass orbs filled with LED lights, casting fractured rainbows across the walls.
Another is a forest of fiber optic cables that glow and pulse like sentient vines.
I’m not the kinda guy who pays attention to art. I’m not one for pretentious crap most artsy-fartsy people dabble in.
But I’d be lying if I said a lot of the installations weren’t beautiful.
More importantly, it’s Simone’s wonder that enthralls me most.
She seems to really be enjoying herself—her eyes wide, her lips parted, completely absorbed in the art.
I enjoy the way she clings to me and how she takes in little breaths when she sees a display she likes.
We murmur to each other about what we like about each piece. She’s thoughtful but interesting as she comments on various aspects, and I find myself responding.
Not being the broody, sarcastic asshole I usually am. But actually holding the conversation with her. Actually keeping it going and engaging by adding my own thoughts.
We spend three hours inside the gallery, some of the last guests to leave before it closes. The staff is starting to turn off lights and usher people toward the exit as we finally step back out into the frigid night.
We walk across the promenade together, our breath fogging in the air. Simone gestures up to the Christmas lights the city has started putting up—strands of white lights draped across lampposts and trees, glowing against the dark sky.
“I’ve lost count how many lights we’ve seen tonight,” she quips.
“I didn’t think I’d be into light displays like that,” I admit. “But it was cool seeing all the different setups.”
She laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Just wait ’til I get you to take me to Chantal’s gallery.”
“When’s the next event?” I ask.
“She’s in the process of putting it together for later this month,” she explains. “But there’re a couple issues that might cause a delay. The new artist she wants to feature is from London, and he’s very obnoxious, with some prima donna demands—”
I look up as Simone’s speaking and notice a sports bike barreling down the side of the street. The bike aggressively cuts through traffic, weaving between cars, the engine roaring.
The rider is hunched low over the handlebars, face hidden behind a dark, shiny helmet. Everything about the way he’s moving sets off alarms in my head.
Then his hand reaches into his jacket.
Time slows to a sluggish pace. I process the glint of metal and the unmistakable shape of what’s in his hand. I put two and two together at the last possible second, my heart lurching inside my chest as I realize what he’s doing and who he’s aiming for.
“Simone!” I roar.
My shoulder connects with hers as I send her tumbling to the ground as the rider points his micro Uzi and opens fire.