Although I doubt it’s the video surveillance that has Briar so excited.
The place is beautiful. It’s themed like a Grecian garden. The walls are white stone, decorated with turquoise mosaic tiles and covered in clinging ivy. Lush green ferns and miniature lemon trees surround each table, and the entire place is strewn with fresh flowers, drifting in long garlands from the ceiling and draping over the chairs and floor. The whole place is illuminated by flickering candles in glass lanterns, giving the room a dreamy, soft feel. Tables usually book half a year in advance, but when I mentioned Briar’s name on the phone, a few spots magically became vacated.
Briar slips her hand into mine as themaitre d’leads us to a couple of tables right in the corner of the restaurant, facing the door. Briar and I sit down at one, and Matt and Kenta take the other, just a few feet away. The position gives us a good outlook over the whole room.
A sommelier appears out of thin air, and Briar smiles up at him. “What are your best sweet wines?”
The man considers. “If madam likes Sauternes, we have someChâteau d'Yquemfrom Graves, Bordeaux.Sauvignon blanc, Semillon,and slightly raisined Muscadelle grapes. Incredibly high quality.”
She looks at me, and I shrug. “I’ll have whatever,” I say. I don’t know shit about wine. Briar orders the bottle, and the man drifts off. She leans against my side and looks around the restaurant, smiling.
“You like it?” I check.
I’m kind of worried. I haven’t really dated since I left the force. Every now and then, Kenta and Matt bully me into meeting a girl for drinks, but the poor woman always spends half of the time trying not to stare at my face. I generally call it quits after one beer and just head home. I don’t even remember the last time I took a girl out to dinner.
She looks at me incredulously. “Are you kidding me? This is the nicest place a guy has ever taken me. And you’re not even angling for money.”
“Actually, we all want a raise,” I tell her, and she laughs, picking up my hand to kiss my knuckles.
“As if. You should be payingmeto wear this dress.”
I run my eyes over her body. She’s wearing a slinky, glittery number covered in pale pink sequins. The fabric clings to her figure, and the sequins reflect little iridescent specks of light all over her arms and bare neck. I think she’s wearing some kind of body glitter, too, because her skin is shimmering softly under the golden lamps. She looks like the world’s sexiest fairy.
“You look gorgeous,” I tell her, and her smile widens.
God, I love seeing her smile. The first week or so, I don’t think I saw her smileonce.It was always the same tight, sardonic smirk. Now she’s beaming at me, eyes sparkling, and it’s tying my stomach into knots.
“You look pretty nice yourself.” She lifts a glittery fingernail and trails it down my Adam’s apple, laughing when I swallow reflexively. “I like you in grey.”
The waiter returns with our wine. As I readjust my chair to give him room, I catch a sudden glimpse of my reflection in the dark window. My good mood dissolves immediately.
You’d think, after five years, I’d get used to seeing my face. But I don’t. Every single time, I get a shock. Tonight, it looks even more horrific than usual. The soft overhead lighting that makes Briar glow like an angel casts shadows over the bumps of my scar, so my whole cheek looks mangled.
I hate this shit.
I don’t think I’m vain. That’s why I never bothered to get it fixed. I don’t usually mind being ugly; I don’t exist in the world to be pretty. I’m not a bloody model.
The issue isn’t the way my face looks. It’s the memories that come with it. People turn and stare at me in the street. They look at the scar when they talk to me. Every day, I see the tiny flicker of revulsion in the eyes of strangers. And Iremember.
I scan the room, and my stomach sinks as I see guests from other tables staring. Of course they are. This whole industry is based on looks. I stick out like a sore thumb. I watch an actress I vaguely recognise look me over, her eyes flicking between me and Briar. She picks up her phone and starts texting rapidly.
Crap.
I didn’t even think about this when I picked out the restaurant. Of course, as a celebrity hotspot, it will be full of really important industry people. Who will gossip. A sense of panic rises up in me. I screwed up. Tomorrow, the magazines will probably be splashed with pictures of Briar on a date with some scarred, grizzled giant, and rumours will start flying.
I shift my weight, trying to block the woman’s line of vision with some of the foliage hanging around the table. She leans forwards. From the angle her phone is at, I’m pretty sure she just took a photo of us.
“Why are you trying to hide behind that fern?” Briar’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “It won’t work, you’re much bigger than it.”
I feel heat rushing to my cheeks. “I wasn’t,” I mumble.
“You were.”
I shake my head, looking down at the menu. “Why do they have entrées and appetisers? What’s the difference? Is it a rich people thing?”
“Americans call main dishes entrées. Why are you hiding?”
I frown, thumbing through the gilt-edged pages. “That makes no sense.”
