“Are cellars common in Central London?” he asked with ateasing grin, not even blinking at my architectural plans for debauchery.
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. A loft. A sex loft.”
“Bit cramped for a dungeon.”
“It won’t matter when I’m on my back,” I shot back, sticking my tongue out.
“Or your front.” He bumped my shoulder and waggled his eyebrows.
A vivid image slammed into my brain—me, face down, ass up, Bodhi railing me in my imaginary sex dungeon. My cheeks flamed and I immediately stared at my shoes. “You’re ridiculous,” I muttered, giving his arm a half-hearted shove.
Bodhi slung an arm around my neck and reeled me in. Earlier, the scent of his aftershave had been comforting. Now it was halfway to giving me a semi.
“And you,” he said, voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. “Are a bad influence.”
A shiver crawled down my spine, and I mentally slapped myself. This wasBodhi. My friend. My rock-star friend. My incredibly attractive rock-star friend who filled out tight jeans like a sin. Christ. The whole city reeked of sex and lust, and apparently, I was overdue for a distraction.
“Let’s eat,” I blurted, stepping out of his hold, grateful we’d finally reached the restaurant. “I’m fucking starving.”
I opened the door for him and swept my arm out like a butler greeting royalty.
“Age before beauty.”
Bodhi smacked the side of my thigh as he passed and held a tattooed finger inches from my face. “Respect your elders.”
I snorted and followed him inside. A server led us to a small table tucked at the back of the restaurant, safely removed from the bar in the centre of the room.
Alcohol was everywhere in the real world—woven into dinners, celebrations, first dates, bad days, good days. We couldn’t exactly hide from it unless we locked ourselves in a windowless bunker. But we could keep it at arm’s length. Sit far from the bar. Stick together. Be each other’s safety net while we balanced on the rickety tightrope of sobriety, wobbling forward one day at a time. And at least marijuana was confined to the city’s coffee shops, which helped a little.
The restaurant itself was warm and inviting. Exposed brick walls, black-and-white photos of Lebanese dancers, and rows of cushions lining a long bench against the wall on one side of the table. I slid onto the bench so Bodhi wouldn’t have a clear view of the bar. He settled opposite, caught my eye, and mouthed a quiet, “Thank you.”
A server dressed in all black approached, name tag reading Maroun. He lit the small candle between us and smiled. “Marhaba, gentlemen. Can I get you anything to drink? Beer or wine?”
My eyes snapped to Bodhi’s. His flicked to mine. We waited, each maybe hoping the other would give permission to cave. To order a beer. To call this whole self-control thing off for one night.
Bodhi gave a tiny shake of his head. Barely there.Don’t.
I nodded back.Okay.
I turned to Maroun. “Do you have any soft drinks?”
“Of course!” He flipped open a little drink menu. “Ayran, if you like yoghurt drinks.Jallabif you want something sweet. Non-alcoholic cocktails, Arabic coffee, and all the usual fizzy drinks.”
I skimmed the list and pointed. “What’s Lebanese iced tea?”
Maroun grinned. “Ah, mybabathinks he’s a comedian.” He nodded at an older man behind the bar. “It’s from New Orleans,not Lebanon. But it’s his favourite drink, so he added it and pretends it’s traditional.”
I smiled. “Who am I to break tradition? One Lebanese iced tea.”
“Excellent choice.” He turned to Bodhi. “And for you, sir?”
“The same,” Bodhi said, shooting me a wink.
Maroun tucked the notepad away and pulled out two dinner menus, but Bodhi held up a hand.
“What do you recommend?”
Maroun lit up. “Any allergies or preferences?”
