He’s impeccably dressed, of course. I can’t see any labels today or identify the designers, but the crisp shirt cups his broad shoulders perfectly, tapering down to his waist, and his slacks fall in neat lines. Everything he’s wearing has been tailored just for him.
Dorian is on his phone, so I give my skirt a final tug before striding up to him.
For a moment, he keeps flicking his thumb, spinning through his Instagram feed. I clench my teeth, pissed because he’s makingmewait now. He’s reclaiming the little edge of power I took.
Then his blue eyes snap to mine. “Baz. Short for Basil?” His voice curls around my name in liquid layers, like honey and whiskey. I want to paint his damnvoice. “A name inherited, perhaps, from an ancestor?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Explanations can wait. You must be hungry—I know I am.” He gives me a suggestive grin and a wink.
The hostess recognizes Dorian the moment we enter and guides us into a booth. Our server appears immediately, and Dorian orders a bottle of some wine whose name I don’t quite catch, but it sounds French and fancy.
“Is that all right?” He turns his blue eyes on me.
“It’s fine. A good choice.” I nod coolly, trying to look as if Ialways drink Whatchumathingy wine.
The dimple pops into Dorian’s cheek as he smiles. Not a calculated, performed smile—this is a real one, paired with a genuine spark of humor in his eyes.
And my damn stomach flips.
I haven’t had a stomach flip like that in months—maybe longer.
The server suggests either the duck breast or the tenderloin before going to fetch the wine. When he leaves, Dorian leans toward me.
“You have no idea what kind of wine I just ordered, do you?” he murmurs.
“Nope.” I wince. “I’m not so much the sit-down-to-dinner type. More the grab-a-sandwich-and-go type.”
“Sometimes I am, too.” He straightens, sipping from his water glass. “What kind of sandwich?”
“Really?” I lift my eyebrows. “We’re going to talk about sandwiches?”
“We could talk about portraits instead, if you prefer.”
“Roast beef and caramelized onions on a sourdough bun,” I say. “With au jus on the side.”
“Nice.” He tilts his head back, thinking. “For me, the smoked salmon from the Sandwicherie of New York. Cream cheese, tomatoes, cucumber, capers, red onion, and a touch of wasabi, on pumpernickel. Oh, and you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted La Bandiera from Pino’s Sandwiches in Florence.”
“I’m guessing you mean the Florence in Italy, right? Not the one here in South Carolina.”
He smiles. “Yes, Italy. I lived there for a while.”
“Right, because you hop from city to city whenever you’re bored.”
“And you despise me for that.” He sets his elbows on the tableand leans in again, interest narrowing his eyes. “No…not for the traveling… You despise me for the wealth that allows me to uproot myself whenever I like. You despise that wealth, that freedom, because you crave it yourself.”
Thing is, I could have freedom. I could sell my aunt’s house. Take the money and leave. Pursue my dreams elsewhere. But I don’t want to, not yet. That house is the only piece of my family I have left. It’s mine. I want to try to make things work, right here in Charleston. Selling feels like giving up something more than just a deed with my name on it.
I take a swallow of water, hoping it will cool my face. “Is this how you talk to all your dates?”
“Is this a date?”
“Absolutely not. This is business.”
“So you’re considering my offer.”
“No! Never.”
