He grins. “Let’s celebrate, then,” he says. “Come on, we’re going to dinner. I’m starving.”
Her body is buzzing, warm: released and humming, ecstatic with potential.
It’s just dinner,she thinks.
Lili nods, smiling up at him.
Aleksandr’s grin widens, and he kisses her again.
6
Risk Tolerance
“I’m positive there’s no vegan food here,” she mutters.
“Let me worry about that,” Aleksandr says, as the maître d’ leads them into the dining room. His hand settles at the small of her back; the faint brush of his fingers against the soft fabric of her dress makes her shiver, even in the humidity of the summer night.
Cavernous, cultivated, yet intimate: It’s a heavy white tablecloth restaurant downtown, Le Coucou, with whitewashed brick walls, candlelight, rows of shining cutlery. Well-dressed groups of friends, lithe women, handsome men, a few wealthy families with grown children celebrating birthdays. Faded mirrors reflect the dim gleam of the dining room, waitstaff carrying out nouvelle cuisine. There are easy, confident twists of waiters’ elbows as they uncork wine, pouring it into thin-stemmed glasses. A sommelier weaves through the room.
She’s spent the week surrounded by the background hum of Aleksandr’s money. Conflicted about benefiting, uneasy about its source, she’s been able to push that aside when deep in work. But entering the restaurant, it’s difficult not to notice it, now: his wealth, and the way he inhabits it; the way rooms and people orient around him; the way he expects them to.
“Are you sure you’re alright to eat here?” Lili asks, glancing up at him. “I think it only has one Michelin star.”
Aleksandr squeezes her hip, grinning. Around them, the buzz ofconversation drifts, low-slung chandeliers hang above parties of beautiful people, opulent spreads of too-expensive food.
Lili knows she’s pretty. Knows that in the right light, with the right mood, she can be beautiful. But this sense of eyes on her, curious and electric, as she walks with him through the dining room—it’s new, and feels too sensitive on her skin.
She knows she’s living in a delusion: this time in which she’s a priority for him, these moments outside of her regular life; this temporary relief from the tightrope she constantly walks, this illusion of a safety net.
It’s just—intoxicating, and she can’t help wanting it for a little longer.
“Your table, Mr. Petrov.”
It’s a banquette nestled in a corner. Intimate, cloistered. Sitting down, Lili lets herself take a breath—settle, calm, arrive here. Aleksandr takes a seat beside her as more waitstaff appear, setting down menus and wine lists, filling up their water instantly.
Lili adjusts her hips slightly. In the soft-focus glow of the restaurant, her skin feels like it’s glinting, secret, dark golden. Tight and aching, she feels filled with him; her thighs are still slick.
I should take a shower, she’d said, earlier as they’d righted their clothes. His hand had slid up her thighs, fingers slipping inside of her suddenly, pushing his spend deeper, and she’d taken a sharp inhale, grasping at his suit.No, Lili,he said.You’re not taking a shower.
“What type of wine do you prefer?” Aleksandr’s looking at her.
“Oh—white,” she answers, distracted.
Aleksandr nods, glancing over the wine list. “Likewise.”
“I’d have thought you’d like red. Châteauneuf-du-Pape, all of that.”
“If that’s a quip about my age, I’ll let you reconsider.”
Lili smirks. Under the table, she runs the toe of her shoe against his ankle.
“Any particular appellation?” he asks.
“Um—” She looks over the wine list, the blur of terroir and family names. “I’m not sure.”
“That’s alright,” he says. “What do you usually enjoy in wine?”
“Drier,” she supplies. “Drier, and acidic. I really like albariño, but this is French, so—I’m not sure.”
