She wrinkles her pert nose. “Yeah, I could tell.”
“Oh? What gave me away?”
“You seemed… relieved. I don’t know if it’s because I was orwasn’twhat you expected, but I saw the tension drain out of you, and I thought, ‘Fuck, is he actually kinda into me?’” She puts one of her bare feet on top of mine, and the simple intimacy of it thrills me to the marrow—there’s something so fundamentally human about it.
I toy with a tendril of her hair, damp at the tip from the shower. “I very much was. And remain so. And as to the future…” I wrap her curl of hair around my fingertip. “I’m no seer, but the way I feel when I’m with you—”
She covers my mouth with one hand and presses her bee-stung lips together as if embarrassed, then steps back out of my arms. “Don’t go getting all serious on me, Sandy. As the saying goes, ‘I’m here for agoodtime, not for alongtime.’”
My heart drops like a sinkhole, but I force a smile. “As if anything could entice a bounder like yours truly into ‘getting all serious.’”
“Good. Let’s hit the road. I don’t wanna be late for our reservation.” She grabs my necktie and tows me into the bedroom, then heads for the hallway. “And FYI, you’re still hot as a three-dollar pistol, even dressed like a fucking clown.”
The restaurant is one I’ve passed often, but at which I’ve not dined. I’m hoping that inside we’ll be seated at an intimate corner table, dark enough to camouflage me. But surely this mischievous minx won’t let me off so easily. She parks nearly half a kilometer from the restaurant, claiming (with a naughty glint in her eye) that she “wants to window-shop” and that it has nothing to do with furthering my mortification by making me stroll through town.
A sheepish demeanor, I realize, will only make it worse, so I take her arm and saunter along as if I’m in the know about a new fashion trend. This strategy works until my false confidence is punctured by a small child pointing and laughing, crowing out, “Che scemo!”
My relief, walking into the restaurant, evaporates as I lock eyes with the woman at the hostess station—a buxom beauty with a jet-black pixie cut. Nicoletta and I had a dalliance last year that she clearly doesn’t recall as fondly as I do, considering her caustic glare. I’m not sure whether the buffoonish suit makes me more despicable to her or less so.
As I’m mentally scrambling for the least awkward course of action, Nicoletta’s catlike gaze shifts to Sage and her eyes light up. She smacks her hands together and cries out with joy, and I have a moment of panic wondering whether Sage and I haveslept with the same woman. My confusion lingers as the two launch into chatting in Italian. I had no idea Sage spoke it. I stand dumbly, trying to catch a few easy words, a courtesy smile frozen on my face.
Finally Nicoletta comes around the lectern and elbows me aside to get a selfie with Sage, who then signs a menu for her. They continue bantering gaily as we’re led to our table, which is, to my dismay, bang in the middle of the back patio, displaying me to all.
I pull out Sage’s chair for her and then sit. “Do you and Nic—Erm, do you and the hostess know each other?” I ask, draping the linen serviette across my lap.
Sage smirks. “No, she just recognized me and she’s a racing fan. But apparentlyyouknow her.”
A small sigh escapes me. “No point denying it. And luckily she was starstruck by you, or I might’ve got a Biro to the eye socket.”
I thank the young man who comes to deposit menus and pour chilled glasses of sparkling water for us; then Sage thanks him as well, but better, in Italian.
“I’d no clue you spoke the language,” I tell her.
She pulls a breadstick from an upright metal basket and crunches it. “Surprise!” she says, chewing. “I also speak decent Spanish, a little French, and a smidge of half-assed Polish—enough to keep my grandma happy. How ’bout you?”
“I regret to report that I’ve little skill with languages. I’ve retained some schoolboy-proficiency French. Chiefly pertaining to business or seduction.”
“That’s so on-brand for you. Wow.” She twiddles the breadstick like a cigar, eyeing me with humor.
I suffer a spasm of insecurity that the more Sage knows me, the more likely she is to be unimpressed. I’m wealthy, a stylish dresser, well read, and good at playing the piano. But is that enough for a dazzling spitfire like this woman?
We fall into easy conversation that moves from foreign languages to our respective travels—the most underrated and unusual destinations—and when the server shows up, we realize we’ve not even looked at the menu.
“What’s captivating you, Sandy-boy?” Sage asks me, doing a quick scan of the items listed on the cream-colored page.
You.
Everything about you.
The flash of your eyeteeth when you laugh. The way one of your ears sticks out a tiny bit more than the other. The sultry gold of your irises, like sunrise shining through a ribbon of treacle. The high arches in your feet. Your American accent, the tone lazy and warm and elastic, like palm trees nodding on a California beach…
I give a helpless chuckle and turn my menu face down. “No clue, pet. Shall you order for us?”
Her eyebrows go up. “You’d trust me? Sure I won’t set you up with something weird?”
“You said this wretched suit evens the score; I’ve no fear of being pranked. Also…” I reach across the table and take her fingers in my hand. She almost pulls away, then settles, and her expression softens. “Idotrust you,” I tell her. “Unreservedly.”
Her shoulders relax as if she’s letting out a held breath, and her smile is a window opening. “Shucks. Don’t go gettin’ all corny on me…”
