I grin at her from across the table. "Worth every penny."
She shakes her head. "I was wondering why my clients were so flexible on the menu. Usually brides have very specific ideas about what they want, down to the most ridiculous details. I couldn’t believe it when they asked me to decide for them. Anyway, I just went safe. I chose popular dishes that most people love. Scallops, black miso cod, and lemon meringue pie. Simple and delicious."
"So true." I push my plate to the side. The food was incredibly tasty, but I haven't been able to eat much because of the nerves.
"Tell me," I say, refilling Liv’s champagne glass. I sent the waiter, the chef, and the pianist away with a big tip and told them I'd take it from here. "Who was your most difficult bride?"
Liv thinks about that, then her eyes light up with mischief. "I can't name names, but..." She leans forward conspiratorially. "Let's just say she's famous for being with a real-estate tycoon, and her wedding made international headlines."
"Ah, one of those."
"Yeah, one of those. She wanted everything white. Everything. And I mean everything. It was a winter wedding with fake snow and an ice-skating rink. They went all out; even the faces of the waiters had to be painted white."
I throw my head back and laugh. "You're joking."
"I wish I were. And not just the waiters—I had to be painted white too. It took days to get all the face paint completely removed from my ears and underneath my nails." She holds up her hands, examining her manicured fingers. "The food had to be white too, which was a logistical nightmare. The starter was some kind of white soup—I can't even remember what exactly. Then steamed fish with mashed potatoes with white truffle and white asparagus, lemon sorbet, and of course the wedding cake was this massive white monstrosity."
I laugh again, imagining Liv trying to coordinate an all-white wedding while looking like a ghost herself.
"The worst part," she continues, "was when the bride spotted one of the guests wearing a pink coat because she was freezing on the ice rink we set up for them. You'd have thought someone had committed murder. The bride had a complete meltdown—screaming about how the guest was 'ruining her vision' and demanding that security escort her out unless she removed the coat immediately."
I shake my head in disbelief. "Over a pink coat?"
"Over a pink coat." Liv sits back and chuckles. "I had to find the poor woman a white fake fur stole to borrow, but the bride sulked for the rest of the evening because her 'winter wonderland aesthetic' had been 'compromised by someone's selfishness.'"
"Did the marriage last? Do you ever keep track of these things?"
"Sometimes. I did with this one because it was memorable and I had a bet on with my first assistant, Sophie. It lasted five months," Liv says dryly. "I won the bet, by the way. Sophie gave them more credit."
I feel the last of the tension from earlier melting away. This is what I missed most about being with Liv—the easy conversation, the way she makes me laugh, how natural everything feels when we're together.
"Speaking of time, thank you for giving me more than an hour," I say, checking my watch. We've been here for over three hours, talking and laughing, and it feels like no time has passed.
"Yeah, well, I was hungry," she jokes. "No, seriously, it's been nice. Getting to know you a little better. The real you." She pauses, studying my face. "You're not much different from Sailor, really. Inside, I mean."
"It's been really nice for me too," I say, reaching across the table to touch her hand.
She doesn't pull away, but I can see something shifting in her expression—uncertainty creeping back in.
"So what do we do now?" she asks quietly.
"Well," I say, "we could have a nightcap inside."
I see the conflict flash across her face—want warring with caution—and I quickly pivot.
"Or," I continue, "we respectfully say goodnight, I call you a cab, and we see each other next week when you come on a road trip with me and Danny to expand your mustard horizons."
Liv laughs at that. She stands up and walks around the table toward me.
I watch her approach, my pulse quickening as she stops beside my chair and looks down at me. Without a word, she reaches out and cups my cheek.
Leaning into her touch, my eyes flutter closed for a moment. When I open them again, she's biting her lip. She strokes my mouth and I take her thumb between my lips, my tongue tracing the pad of it while I hold her gaze.
Her breath hitches, and I feel her fingers tighten against my jaw. My hand finds her hip, then slides around to curve over the soft swell of her ass, pulling her closer until she's standing between my knees. Her free hand comes to rest on my shoulder, fingers curling into my shirt.
"I don't want to respectfully say goodnight," she says. The words seem to cost her something—this admission, this surrender of control she guards so fiercely. Her thumb slips from between my lips and she traces the line of my jaw. She pauses. "I want you."
43
