kennedy
The Copper Lanternis one of Boston’s oldest restaurants. Though I doubt the place had a six-month wait for reservations in its early days.
Across from me, Cameron admires the space, wineglass in hand but not a single sip taken. I don’t blame him for getting distracted. The dining room has the kind of impressive architecture that only comes with age and money. We’re seated in what must have been a front parlor, with exposed brick on one side. The other walls are painted that deep greenish-black that wealthy Bostonians apparently loved in the nineteenth century.
He studies the crown molding and the fireplace with its carved marble mantel. There’s a copper lantern, of course, hanging nearby, but it’s genuine, tarnished, and dented, not some half-assed reproduction.
“Did you know the restaurant was a private home first?” I ask, lowering my menu. I can’t sit in silence any longer. “It was owned by a shipping merchant in the 1820s. They converted it to a restaurant after Prohibition.”
He zeroes in on me, and I nearly forget to breathe. Cameron’s all sharp edges and intimidating in a way that makes every other guy in existence seem like a cute, fluffy puppy. And having all that intense energy directed at me? In an intimate setting that makes me hyperaware of my every move? It’s a lot.
“Close,” he says with a crooked smile. “But it opened in the middle of Prohibition, not after. Speakeasy first, then a legitimate restaurant once they could admit what they were doing.”
Surprise and maybe a little appreciation flow through me. I know my Boston history, and even if I’m slightly off, it’s rare anyone knows any better. Apparently, Cameron does. “Huh. How’d you know that?”
He finally takes a sip of his wine. “I studied history in college.”
Without permission, laughter bursts out of me, my hair falling in front of my face as my shoulders shake.
His grip on his drink tightens, and defensiveness creeps across his face like a shadow.
Shit.
If he wasn’t plotting my demise before, he certainly is now.
I reach out, placing my hand on his before he can retreat. “I’m not laughingatyou, Cameron. I have a bachelor’s in history and my dad’s a historian. He’s got so many degrees they practically wallpaper his office.”
Head tipped down, he studies me from under his brow. “Oh?”
“My sisters and I are named after historical figures. Our parents chose our names based on which figure we share a birthday with,” I continue, hoping he understands that my amusement is with the irony, not his education. The coincidence simply caught me off guard.
“So you’re named Kennedy because you share a birthday with…”
“John F. Kennedy,” I supply. “My oldest sister, Amelia, shares a birthday with Amelia Earhart and my other sister, Frankie, shares a birthday with Frank Sinatra.”
A deep laugh rumbles from his chest, and the last of his stone-cold stare dissolves. He looks equal parts dumbfounded and intrigued. “Wow. That’s something.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I agree with a slanted smile.
He ducks his head in a way that’s adorably, and sort of alarmingly, bashful. “I didn’t realize you were into history.”
Humming, I consider his words. “I wouldn’t say I’mintohistory. More like I was indoctrinated into the field, and it was a solid prelaw major.”
Cameron freezes with his wineglass halfway to his mouth. “You went to law school?”
“Yup,” I reply, making a popping noise with the final letter. “You’re sitting across the table from a Harvard Law School dropout.”
His brows inch upward while his mouth falls open slightly. It’s a reaction I’m used to. Surprise, mostly, that someone like me—loud and restless and always talking—could get into Harvard Law. That’s typically followed by another assumption. That someone like me—loud and restless and always talking—couldn’t possibly have survived it.
I could’ve. I just chose not to.
The question is written all over his face before it leaves his lips. “Why?”
It’s simple and expected, but it lands like it always does.
Why would I choose this path when I could’ve had that?
Before a painful lump can form in my throat, I take a sip of my drink, buying myself a second to consider how much I want to say. I land on the minimum. “Long story.”
