‘You look like you’re about to bolt.’ His smile is a touch haughty.
‘Is that an observation or a recommendation?’
‘It would be a shame. I hadn’t expected such lovely company this evening.’
‘Strange. I was thinking about your looks, too. ’ Because he can’t be talking about my personality. We’re not exactly chatting like old friends.
‘Should I prepare for an insult?’ he drawls, placing his forearms on the arms of the chair with his fingers steepled as though his tone wasn’t enough of a challenge.
‘I decided that while all outward signs point to you being a gentleman, I think ... the illusion ends there.’ And I still didn’t hear an apology.
‘I knew you weren’t just a pretty face.’ Completely unfazed, he picks up the menu once again. ‘Shall we order?’
Despite the swanky surroundings, I order my usual go-to of risotto, this one containing a type of mushroom I can’t even begin to pronounce. It’s also served with truffle shavings over the usual serving of parmesan. I send a silent prayer to the heavens that my selection isn’t wildly expensive because it seems this isn’t the kind of establishment that would sully its menu by including prices, unfortunately. Beckett orders chalk stream trout, which sounds fancy enough to come without a price tag, even if I do find myself biting back a smile.
‘What’s so amusing?’ he asks after dictating his order to the waiter.
‘I’m not allowed to smile?’ Something inside me unfurls. No way am I telling him I’m relieved he’s ordered fish. This really is just a platonic dinner and a case of being in the wrong place at the right time. Or wrong time, depending on your perspective.
Maybe wrong should be the word of the day, not odd.
‘I get the feeling you smile a lot, but maybe just not around me.’
‘Come on, we’ve met twice, and spent, what . . .?’ I make a show of looking at my watch. ‘Thirty minutes together, tops?’
‘So far,’ he answers inscrutably. ‘Though I hope it’s thirty minutes out of many, many more.’
And that’s just confusing. Who orders fish if they’rehoping to get to know you better? Which, let’s face it, is just boy-speak for hoping to get into your underwear.
So not happening.
I don’t even like him, right?
From here, things fall into a comfortable pattern. Or less strange, anyway. Conversation moves along with few gaps, and Beckett fills the potential awkwardness with a wry observation or an anecdote with a thoroughly practised ease.
‘What brought you to town this morning?’ he asks as the waiter fills my glass again. It’s like my glass is one of those toy baby bottles I had as a kid, the kind that came in the box with a new doll, because I tip my glass to my lips, and by the time it’s straight, it’s full again. Like magic. In my defence, I’m also trying to match the levels of champagne with the fancy Norwegian water also served to the table.
‘I had a meeting in the building you tripped me outside of. On the thirty-fifth floor.’ That’s as far as I’ll go unless pushed for details. ‘And I suppose you were there for kicks? Did you trip many more unsuspecting passers-by?’
‘Remember, I said I do much worse. And usually in the same building.’ Over the rim of his glass, his eyes gleam. Maybe it’s the light. Or the champagne. Or maybe I should drink more water.
‘What is it you do? You know, when you’re not behaving atrociously?’
‘Hmm.’ He taps his finger against his chin. ‘If I’m not behaving badly, then I must be asleep.’
‘No, seriously,’ I say with a giggle. Giggling. Also not a great sign. ‘What do you do for a living?’ Because, surely, everyone works. Even rich people. I come from a fairly affluent background myself, but everyone has some kind of vocation. Like my grandfather. He was a pharmacist and owned a chain of drug stores to support his family. On second examination, something tells me Beckett is on a whole other level.
‘I’m in finance.’
‘Ah, so you are in league with the devil then?’
Our joint mirth is interrupted by the delivery of an entrée of bite-sized crab cakes.
‘Here, try one.’ Beckett pushes the plate into the middle of the table, but I shake my head.
‘No, thank you. I’m not a fan of seafood.’
‘Crab cakes aren’t seafood,’ he says with an air of having heard something ridiculous.
