‘That’s better,’ he murmurs, seating himself as a waiter appears at the table. He opens my starched napkin with a flourish before laying it across my lap before a heavy leather-bound menu is passed into my companion’s hand.
‘I owe the lady a glass of champagne,’ he murmurs, passing the unopened menu back. ‘A bottle of the Ruinart ’98, I think.’ He may be bossy, but he also has a very pretty mouth, and I can’t seem to stop watching the shapes it makes without even comprehending the words.
‘Of course,’ the sommelier, I guess, returns in a modulated tone. ‘The rosé, sir?’
Both gazes turn my way, one narrowing in an echo of this morning. Before I decide they’re waiting for me to answer, he murmurs, ‘Yes, I believe so.’
Apparently, I look like a girl who drinks vintage blush champagne? I’m not normally the kind of girl whose cheeks look stained by the stuff, yet I feel them burning all the same.
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ I say, my hands moving the silverware on the table in front a few millimetres to the left. My eyes also remain glued to the task.
‘I owe you an apology.’ My head rises at his even tone. ‘I’d like to say this morning’s behaviour was out of character, but that would be a lie.’
‘You mean you often trip up unsuspecting passers-by?’
‘No. I usually do much worse.’ With a half-smile that can only be described as provocative, he adds, ‘I was very curt.’
My responding laughter has a nervous edge because what’s the difference between now and this morning? And being told you’re owed an apology and hearing one are two different things, aren’t they? Discomforted, I glance at the bank of windows to my right. I feel like I’ve disappeared into another realm, yet outside, the evening carries on uninterrupted. Londoners passing by this rich oasis without even detecting the mirage before them. Maybe if I’d approached from the other end of the street, I might not have noticed it, either. And that’s obviously the point—this place is a kind of exclusive enclave where regular folk are unwelcome. Which kind of makes sense when I re-examine the glacial response to my entrance.
The whole place just reeks of money. The rich interior, the low and soothing background music, and the unobtrusive waitstaff who are invisible until a diner lifts a finger and then they reappear out of nowhere. The furniture is so comfortable it seems to suck the life right out of you, which is perhaps why our fellow diners’ conversations are being carried on at levels scarcely above a hum.
The champagne arrives, and once poured, I settle for making avof my fingers over the base of the glass.
‘I draw the line at poisoning my guests.’
Not for the first time, I realise why this kind of accent is described as cut glass.His diction is so sharp he’s almost pierced skin. His sharp jaw flexes with something like annoyance as his own fingers wrap around the stem of the glass, and he brings it to his mouth.
‘I’m not afraid of being roofied, if that’s what you’re imagining. But I’m also not entirely sure I’m your guest.’
‘I don’t remember frog-marching you into the dining room. I invited you to join me. By that very definition, you are my guest.’
‘Well, thank you.’I suppose.Eventually, I lift my own glass and take a sip, allowing the cool bubbles to roll over my tongue.
‘I’m Olivia, by the way.’ I set the glass down but don’t offer him my hand. The moment feels a little too odd to be covering the pleasantries now.
Odd. That’s like the word of the day.
‘Beckett,’ he offers in response with a slight tilt of his glass.
‘Is that your first name or last?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not. I’m just making conversation.’ One-sided conversation, it seems. ‘It’s a little weird that’s all you’ll offer, though.’
‘Like I live to intrigue you.’
‘So just Beckett. LikejustMadonna orjustBeyoncé orjust—?’
‘Beckett will do.’
With a shrug, I find myself taking another sip or three of my champagne. And as he opens the menu, I take the opportunity to really look at him. I know I looked this morning, but this time, I take a thorough inventory from a different perspective. For one thing, I’m not sprawled across the pavement.
He’s tall and powerfully built. He looks like the kind of man who’d participate in triathlons for fun and barely break a sweat. His suit is summer weight wool and probably tailor-made, and his white shirt is still pristine. Long, elegant fingers with square nails buffed to a shine. Even without the sharp suit and chauffeur-driven car, it’s obvious he uses his head and not his hands for work. If he even works.
And speaking of heads, the classical arrangement of his features should lend towards movie-star good looks, but something about him is just a little too wicked. He has the kind of face that would stop a girl in her tracks. Not only because he’s handsome but also because his looks are even intimidating. There’s something powerful about him, something innate. Even just perusing the menu, he looks kind of threatening, his expression as focussed as a hound on the scent of a hare. He’s older, too. But not old, exactly. Thirty-six or thirty-seven, maybe?
I jump as the sound of the heavy-bound menu hits the table.
