“You’ll see,” he said, hopping out and coming around to help me out.
Fingers laced together, he led me inside, guiding me down a hallway that bisected the kitchens from the restrooms and outonto the main dining floor.
The entire place was empty.
“What the fuck?”
Owen chuckled but didn’t answer me, instead pulling me toward a circular table in the center of the room. At its side, a bottle of Chateau Delatou sparkling wine sat on ice in a bucket, and candles flickered on its surface, suffusing the area in a warm glow.
“Where is everyone?”
“I assume the chef and our waiter are in the kitchen,” he said.
“I mean patrons, QB,” I said, glaring at him.
“I closed Birdie’s down tonight. I wanted you all to myself.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I can, actually,” he said. “I own the place, remember?”
“You are…insane.”
“Insane about you, yes,” he agreed.
My heart lodged in my throat as my gaze swept the room. The lights were low, the space lit mostly by tealights and the dimmed wall sconces.
Owen’s eyes sparkled as I caught his gaze, and inexplicably, my nose stung with unshed tears.
“This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me,” I told him, almost embarrassed by that fact.
“There’s more where this came from, my girl,” he said, winking at me.
Before I could respond, the waiter appeared from the back, carrying two goblets and a bottle of Chateau Delatou Merlot, which happened to be my favorite of ours.
“How did you know?” I asked, forehead creasing as I gesturedat the wine.
“You mentioned it once in passing a long time ago,” he said.
“And you remembered?” I asked, incredulous. “I don’t even remember telling you!”
“I remember everything, Delia. Every word. Every like and dislike. Every outfit, every smile and glance and touch.” He tapped his temple. “It’s all right here.”
I rose from my seat and moved to his side, plopping down on his lap and throwing my arms around his neck. Leaning in to kiss him, I whispered, “Thank you.”
There was a world of things I wasn’t saying encompassed in those two words, and Owen must’ve been able to read it all on my face. He simply said, “You’re welcome.”
I returned to my chair as our waiter brought out the appetizer course.
As usual, dinner was exquisite. We started with crunchy bruschetta topped with a diced tomato and onion mixture, then had a fall-inspired salad with butternut squash, avocado, more tomato, and roasted mushrooms on a bed of warm quinoa. The main course was surf and turf, though Owen ended up eating his entire steak and half of mine. We chatted the entire time, mainly surface level things that revolved around the distillery. We were nearing the finish line, and should be able to open the doors shortly before Christmas.
When the waiter cleared our main course plates and we waited for dessert to come out—though I wasn’t sure where I’d put it; I was already damn near bursting—Owen met my eyes and said, “We need to have a serious conversation.”
Icy dread rolled down my spine, but when Owen reached formy hand, his warm fingers heating my chilled ones, I calmed instantly.
Jumping to conclusions wouldn’t do anyone any good.
“Okay…” I said slowly, the word scraping my throat on the way out.
