Those eyes.
Those dark eyes.
They unclothed me. Exposed me. Left me naked and vulnerable as I tried fleeing their grasp. It was pointless.
“Cognac, neat. And a mango sour.”
I snatched all of my things that Ishmael was after and managed to stretch my line of vision across the floor. Mercer held a hand to his head and pushed it outward. I placed a hand on my heart, expressing my gratitude for more than the drinks he’d sent our way.
It was for his love.
His light.
His life.
His presence.
His victories every time his mental health slipped.
The first sip was surreal. It placed so much back into perspective for me. The crown that Ishmael had tipped during his extended hug was upright now.
“The images,” Ishmael exhaled, “It’s a mess.”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle. I didn’t come to dinner to be insulted.”
“Why are we here? I’d love to hear how you plan to han–”
“We’re a couple.”
“Excuse me?”
I swallowed back, securing my hammering heart in my chest.
“You and I. We’re a couple. As of eight months ago.”
Chuckling, Ishmael shook his head.
“That’s your bright idea?”
I took another sip, waiting for the wheels that I knew would begin to turn in his head. Words weren’t necessary. I’d said all that needed to be said for now. It was up to Ishmael to use that pretty head of his for something other than taming the untamable.
“A couple?”
His brows raised as he posed the question. I nodded.
“Tell me more. Royce.”
A black tray stopped in front of us. An array of dishes were set in front of us.
“Compliments of Chef. Enjoy.”
As quickly as the waitress had appeared, she vanished. I observed the servings we’d been complimented. I knew the menu of The M by heart.
Literally and figuratively.
“Royce–” Ishmael called out, bringing me back to the topic at hand.
Speaking while eating wasn’t in my interests, so I avoided digging into the food. Ishmael hardly wasted time.
