We drink the juice, and then he hustles me out of the house.
The area we're in has a small town that caters to the big homes.
I want to walk, but there's a car waiting.
He ushers me in.
"I'm not up to dancing." I'm a little nervous as we're in the car.
It would be easy to go to the other side of the island to make a big night of it.
"Good, I'm not feeling that. Unless it's slow and close and with you."
I blush as his romantic words ripple through my blood.
We pull up at a beachfront restaurant, and it's one I've heard of. This renowned chef has restaurants around the world, some in remote or unexpected places, and each is meant to be an experience, like this one. Each also reflects the local surroundings and foods.
The restaurant is low-lit, and I stare.
I can't see anyone in it.
"Enzo, this place has Michelin stars."
"All of Henri's places do."
I glare at him. "And they're always booked out. Some of them months or years in advance."
He kisses my throat and then pushes open the car door, getting out and holding his hand out for me. "I'm aware. Come on."
"If you've booked us a table five years ago, I'm calling you a stalker."
"You're calling one? Weird." He leads me up the steps.
"No. I'm calling you one."
A maître d' steps out, smiling.
"Welcome, Mr. Marino. Ms. Mancini. Your table awaits. And to put you at ease, all dietary concerns are in place and taken care of. This way."
We walk in.
I gasp.
The dining area is small, and there's only one table set up.
As we're seated, I wait until we're alone. "Enzo Marino. What did you do?"
He gives me a full-on grin. "I booked the place just for us."
"No, you can't do that."
"I can."
"Enzo..." I put my palms on the table and wait until the glasses are full of both water and kombucha for me, whiskey for him.
And some delicious-looking morsels are put down in front of us.
I don't listen to the explanation and wait until the waiter is gone.
