Rolling my eyes, “Maybe.”
“Bethany,” I could sense Hamilton was smiling on the other end of the phone. “Finally, get a call back. I was starting to think the number you gave me was a prankster leading me on with text messages.”
“Sorry, I just have a lot going on.”
“Let me take you out,” Hamilton said. “Please don’t let me beg.”
I huff into the phone, “Fine. Tonight.”
“I’ll pick you up at 8 pm. Text me your address.”
Hamilton was prompt and was knocking on my door at exactly 8 pm. Opening the door, I find him dressed in a light grey suit, white shirt with nice dress shoes. The scent of expensive cologne lingered around him, giving him a more sophisticated demeanor.
“You smell nice,” I comment.
“Thank you. And you look gorgeous,” Hamilton smiled.
Wearing a cream-colored satin wide-legged jumpsuit with thin straps crossed in the back, I enter the hall. Holding a thin jacket in one hand and a clutch in the other, Hamilton couldn’t hold my hand, so instead, he wrapped his arm around mine. It put a slight smile on my face; no one had ever done that before.
“Are you practicing walking down the aisle?” I teased.
Hamilton blushed, “Girls usually like some kind of physical holding. I was trying to be a gentleman.”
We walked to his car, and he opened the passenger door to his Mercedes-Ben E 450 Cabriolet. It had a white exterior and black leather interior. Sitting in the passenger seat, I couldn’t help but notice it smelled like the car freshener black ice.
“So where are you wining and dining me?” I ask as he drives off.
“One of my favorite restaurants just outside Chicago.”
“Outside Chicago?”
“The best seafood restaurant, hands down.”
I was getting nervous about leaving Chicago. I needed to let my brother know, but I didn’t want to sound like a child who needed to call her parents for permission.
“Can’t wait,” I smile.
Just outside Chicago shouldn’t be bad, right? We arrived at the restaurant and were seated in a private dining area. The waitstaff was on top of everything, and the food was impeccable. To my surprise, the conversation flowed nicely; we had more in common than we thought.
“Doing theatre was one of the worst things my father forced me to do,” Hamilton recalls, “One year, my school put on a play of the opera Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor. Somehow, I got cast as a lead when I barely did an impressionable audition, which I was late for.”
I laugh at the thought. “You managed to play basketball, be on the debate team, and play theatre? Impressive.”
“I think it was to keep me out of trouble.”
“Did it?” I asked.
“Hell no. Being a Branton, you kind of get to slide through life. I fully took advantage of that.”
We may be from different worlds, but our uptight upbringing was similar. “I got to give it to you, Hamilton. Not bad. I may have to come back to this restaurant without you.”
“Wow, using me for my good tastes?” Hamilton joked.
“Can I get you the dessert menu?” the waiter asked.
Hamilton shot me a look, the same one from the pool party.
“I think we’ll grab dessert at home,” I reply.
