“Aye.”
“I love your Orion King books. I know it’s cheeky, but could I get your autograph?” His face goes red. “I don’t have one of your books with me.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you.” He takes a business card out of his wallet and pats his jacket as though he’s looking for a pen.
The woman comes to Hamish’s rescue, handing him a pen from her purse.
“What’s your name?” Hamish asks the man.
“Martin.”
Hamish signs the back of the card—Well met, Martin. Hamish Cameron—and puts a big flourish beneath his name. He hands the pen back to the woman and the card to Martin.
“Thank you so much!” Martin says.
“You’re welcome. You can use it as a bookmark.”
Hamish loops his arm through mine and leads me into the building the restaurant is in before we can get delayed any further. After getting in the lift and taking it to the top floor, he gave his name to the attendant, and we were led to a reserved table right by one of the angled windows, which overlooks London.
“Wow,” I say as Hamish pulls my seat out for me.
There’s a crisp white table cloth, and a quick inspection of the cutlery reveals a silver mark. I’m pretty sure the glasses are crystal too. I’ve been to some nice restaurants, but this is another level of posh.
“You’re impressed?” Hamish asks, sitting.
“Very.”
A waiter brings us a couple of leather-bound menus. "Are you celebrating a special occasion?"
“No. We’re on a date,” Hamish says proudly.
The waiter’s eyebrows raise a fraction. “Very good, sirs. For starters, the chef’s special is Dorset crab.”
Hamish purses his lips as he stares at the menu. “I’d rather have the Cornish mackerel.”
The waiter takes a note of his order. “Sir?” he asks me.
It’s hard not to snigger at being called ‘sir’. “The crab sounds great, thank you.”
“And for your main course?”
I wait for Hamish to order first, even though I’ve already decided. There are only four dishes to choose from.
“Roast monkfish,” he says.
“Could I have the cod, please?” I ask.
“Wine?” the waiter asks.
“Whatever you’d recommend,” Hamish says. “By the glass. Then we can both have whatever complements our food the best.”
“Of course, sir.” The waiter leaves.
Hamish pours us both some sparkling water from the chilled carafe that was waiting for us. He takes a sip and then rests his arm on the table, stretching his fingers towards me. I take his hand without hesitation. His fingers curl around mine, his grip warm and firm. A deep sense of belonging makes my spine tingle, and I marvel at how a gesture as simple as a handhold can make me swoon. I've been on dinner dates and held guy's hands over the table plenty of times, but I've never felt like this before.
"Do you get asked for autographs a lot?" I ask because we can't sit here staring at each other until our starters arrive.
“Not normally. Most people don’t even know who I am unless I mention one of my characters out loud. I’m an author, not a film star.”
