“I’m Scottish, so I can hold my liquor,” I said, and then added, “but I never drink when I have my daughter with me.” I wasn’t going to assume that Lee had told his cousin about my kid, but she had to know that Evanne came first.
She shifted in her seat uneasily at the mention of my daughter but didn’t say anything. Instead, she placed her bag right in the middle of the table, clearly wanting me to notice it. It had an upside-down triangle logo, but I couldn’t read what it said. Not that it mattered because I knew what she wanted me to say.
“Nice bag.”
“Oh, this old thing?” she laughed, and then went off on a story about where she got it, how much she saved getting it, who she was with, who she was making jealous, what shoes she had that matched it…
My phone was sitting on the table, too, her bag blocking it from her line of sight. I looked at her and nodded while surreptitiously pressing my thumb to the phone to unlock it. After shooting Song a polite smile, I glanced down. I’d established a color-coded notification system for the people with whom I corresponded the most. A green rectangle told me someone at the McCrae International Research Institute was passing along some information, most likely about an upcoming conference. Nothing that needed my immediate attention.
Dammit.
“So yeah,” Song finished. “Pretty crazy story.”
“Aye,” I said absently. I must have been more drained than I thought if I was slipping into my native speech patterns.
Thankfully, our drinks arrived just then. I swallowed the last of my current scotch and took the new one, watching as the sommelier poured us each some red wine. Song stuck her glass under her nose and swished the wine around for way too long before sipping. I resisted the impulse to roll my eyes as she informed the sommelier that the wine was perfect. I had no doubt that it was, but I hated when people acted like they knew more about things than they did. If she’d simply admitted she didn’t know what to do with the wine, I would’ve respected her more than watching her pretend.
“And might you two be ready to order?” the waiter asked, appearing from being the sommelier.
Song giggled again, the sound grating on my nerves. “I haven’t even looked at the menu! I’ll have what he’s having. He’s obviously a man with good taste.”
I ordered the ravioli di capriolo, one of my favorite dishes at Il Terrazzo Carmine. Song didn’t know what that was, so the waiter explained that it was pasta. Specifically, pasta filled with venison, spinach, and mushroom veal sauce.
Song’s eyes widened. “Venison? Like Bambi?”
The corner of the waiter’s mouth twitched as he nodded. “Yes, miss. Venison is deer meat. Like Bambi.”
Song shook her head. “No, that won’t do. Change it out for something else. Lobster or shrimp.”
Before the waiter had to decide how to tell a customer that this sort of substitution wasn’t possible, I intervened.
“Would you prefer seafood, then?” I asked. When she nodded, I looked up at the waiter. “Raviolini di pesce.” He nodded, a look of relief on his face.
“What’s that?” Song asked as the waiter walked away.
“It has crab, shrimp, and spinach rather than venison and veal.”
“Oh.” After a beat, she continued, “How did you get your scar?”
I tapped my phone again. A purple message this time, which seemed to be something to do with upcoming European finance training courses, but since it was purple-coded, it didn’t require my response. No emergencies yet. No excuses to leave.
Dammit.
“Well?” Song asked, taking a big sip of wine and swishing it around in her cheeks like mouthwash.
I sighed and gestured to the thin, white scar through my right eyebrow. “This? A scuffle with my arse of a brother. Kid stuff. Nothing worth a story.”
“Well, don’t worry,” she said and gave me a long, exaggerated wink. “Thischick digs scars.”
It was getting harder to smile politely.
She rested her face on her hand. “I love your accent. Scottish is the sexiest accent byfar. I was always jealous that Lee got to go on so many trips to Edinburgh.”
She pronounced itEedinburgwith a hard G. I managed not to grimace, but I couldn’t quite get a smile either, so I raised the glass of red wine I didn’t want to drink. “Slàinte.”
“Cheers!” she squeaked, raising her glass, and leaning across the table.
I ignored the way she pressed her breasts together in an attempt to draw my attention to her cleavage. She clinked our glasses together and licked her lips suggestively before taking a deep sip. I gave it a try. It was kind of fruity, and I resisted the urge to spit it out. Not to my taste. I washed it down with my preferred brand of alcohol. I’d rather my mouth taste like a campfire than a bowl of sweetened grapes.
