He turns and goes to a wine fridge set under the counter. He returns with a bottle and two stemless glasses, then gathers plates and utensils. I stand idly by, watching his shirt strain under muscles that flex and ripple with his movements. I selfishly hope he splits a seam.
He makes up two plates and pours two generous glasses of wine. He tucks the bottle under his arm, picks up the plates, and heads down the hallway with them as I follow behind with the wine glasses.
We enter an exquisite open concept living area with exposed brick and light fixtures like the kitchen. Reclaimed hardwood floors gleam in the low light, and he sets the two plates on a natural wood living edge coffee table in front of a low leather sectional couch.
His entire place is opulent and masculine. So stunning I wonder if he has a professional decorator. I sink into the buttery leather couch and hope I’m able to eat dinner and drink wine without spilling anything on myself. Or his beautiful couch or rug.
He picks up his wineglass and meets my eyes. Lifting his glass to me, he says, “Noroc.”
“Cheers,” I reply, gently tapping my glass to his and taking a sip while I ponder hot guys who speak foreign languages. I never could roll my R’s like that.
The white wine blooms bright on my tongue, not too dry or too sweet. It's like the goldilocks of wine. Sunshine and magic explode on my palate. This is not like the boxed stuff in the back of my fridge.
“This is incredible,” I gush.
“Like you. It's an 1811Château d'Yquem.There’s no one else I would rather share it with.” His eyes blaze with sincerity.
I take another sip and savor the delicious wine before I swallow and then pick up my plate, digging into my pasta, surprised at just how good it is.
“I’m so happy we could share dinner together. I was, uh, feeling bad. You know, about earlier.”
He takes another sip and sets his wineglass down, turning his body to face me head-on. “You have nothing to apologize for. I am the one who has failed you.”
Wow. I thought I was hard on myself. “I mean, I was kinda surprised when I didn't hear from you for a while, but I wouldn't say you failed me.”
He gives me a thankful smile and picks up his plate. We eat in companionable silence for a while, and even I must admit, this dinner is fantastic–the company and wine are the perfect complements.
Half way through my plate, I feel the need to break the silence and say, “Your home is beautiful. Did you hire a designer?”
I look around the open room, appreciating the rich, dark colors and unique artwork on the walls, some exposed brick and some matte black. He has multiple pieces from Dante, including “Dante and Virgil in Hell” above the leather sectional where we are sitting.
In the dining room, he has Van Gogh’s “Skull with Burning Cigarette.” The artwork appears to be super high-quality reproductions. They could almost pass for the real thing. I’m seriously impressed with his taste.
“I’m glad you like it,” he replies as he tops off my wine glass.
I mop up the remnants of the sauce with my last bite of garlic bread and set down my plate, stuffed. I lean back into the soft leather sofa and swirl the last of the lemony yellow wine in my glass.
“I thought that was a famous Van Gogh painting, but now I see it’s not quite the same.” It looks like it could be a companion piece to it, though.
“You are right,” is his vague answer.
I take the final sip, savoring it. We’ve polished off the bottle and I’m happy that he seems to have genuinely enjoyed the dinner. It was delicious. I’ll have to make it again.
“Thank you for sharing dinner with me,” I say sincerely.
This dinner together has been lovely. It feels so, well, comfortable is the only way to describe it. Like we’ve done this a thousand times before. I didn’t feel awkward eating in front of him, wondering if I was chewing too loudly or eating too much. We just ate and enjoyed each other's company. Like an old married couple.
“My pleasure.”
His voice practically purrs over the last word, and I feel it deep into my core. We angle our bodies to better face each other, leaning in at the same time. Our faces inch closer together as we both fall into a heated stare.
“I should probably go,” I murmur, breaking the moment. But what I really mean is, I want to stay, and I hope he tries to talk me into it.
He glances at his watch, which looks suspiciously like a Patek Phillipe, and replies, “It’s early. How about a movie and some gelato a little later?”
I’m such a sucker for gelato. I challenge, “What flavor?”
He scoffs, “The only one that counts. Pistachio.”
