Zach tears a piece of sourdough from the basket and slides it onto my plate. “Eat,” he says, like he’s challenging me to refuse him.
But I am hungry, so I slide the crust between my lips. God, that’s good. I let out a contented groan. “If the bread tastes like this, what’s the rest of the food like?”
“You’ve never eaten here before?” he asks, sounding surprised.
I shake my head. “No. Never had the need. And nobody’s asked me.”
“Fucking fools.” He smiles and offers me another piece of bread. I attack it hungrily. “Have you decided what you want to eat?” he asks me.
I wrinkle my nose, because no. I was too busy staring at him.
“Want me to order for you?” he asks.
It’s weird how I like that he offers. Because right now I don’t want to choose, and I think he knows that. I really agonize over the stupidest of things sometimes. “Yes, that sounds good.”
A smile flickers over his lips.
He orders in a low voice, and the waitress nods with the kind of reverence usually reserved for royalty. I sip my wine, trying not to stare as he speaks.
There’s something so completely attractive about a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. Maybe it’s the confidence. Or the way his voice turns husky when he talks about food, like it’s something intimate.
When the waitress leaves, he catches me watching him over the rim of my glass. “What?” he asks, that half smile playing at his lips again.
“Nothing.” I shake my head and smile into my drink.
“Come on, what’s that look about. Did I choose the wrong thing?”
The smile pulls harder at my cheeks. When I look up, he’s got that intense expression on his face again, like he’s trying to figure me out.
“Not at all. You chose good things. I guess I haven’t had a man order for me before.” I tilt my head. “Maybe I like you taking care of me.”
He swills his whiskey around his glass. “Maybe I like it too.”
It’s strange how easy this feels. Like we’ve slipped into a rhythm of something that’s meant to be. Even if it feels as natural as breathing, I know this isn’t real. But when helooks at me with those stormy eyes, I can’t help but wonder how it would be if we were real.
If we were a couple.
I push that thought away, because nothing good ever comes from wishing for something you can’t have.
“Tell me about your work,” I inquire, because I’m genuinely interested. And I’m tired of talking about myself. “You said as well as the gallery you travel a lot.”
He takes a sip of his whiskey, a bead clinging to his bottom lip. I have to fight the urge to reach across and touch him. “I mostly source expensive art for very rich people. They build an extra wing on their mansion, they need art to make people know they still have money.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing.
“So they give you a shopping list or something?” I ask.
“Sometimes. But mostly, they ask me to suggest what would work. With the age of the building, the aesthetic they want, their personal tastes. And then I go hunting. Find a piece, negotiate a price, take a cut.”
“You make it sound easy,” I murmur. “And I’m sure it’s not.”
“It involves a lot of travel, which is tiring. And of course a lot of negotiation.”
“I bet you’re good at that,” I say.
He laughs softly. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you have a golden tongue,” I say, running my finger around the rim of my glass. “You could persuade me to do whatever you want me to. And I’m sure you have the same effect on other people.”
He grins, slow and smug, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “I think you’ll find it’s the other way round.”
