Miles spoke lightly, yet something in his expression seemed to take us right back to the moment I’d been sitting in his lap, and I looked away. “I should shower before Katie walks in and has to see me like this. I know you said she was going out, but knowing my luck, she’ll change her mind.”
From the floor, his phone buzzed. Ignoring it, he set a hand on my leg to stay my escape and said, “Speaking of Katie being out, we should celebrate too.”
“Didn’t we just do that?”
“Sure, but I mean like go out for dinner rather than heating up frozen food and camping on the couch. My treat.”
“Flowers and cakes and orgasmanddinner?”
He shrugged one shoulder, smile a little amused, a little defensive. “What can I say? You deserve it and I’m proud of you. So, what’s this favourite food of yours?”
Because I couldn’t handle thinking about the rest of what he’d said, I answered with a shake of my head. “It’s a secret.”
“Fine, let’s go out for . . . Indian.”
“All right.”
“Vietnamese.”
“You changed your mind very quickly.”
“Mexican.”
I frowned up at him. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to guess. Your face is a bad liar, so I’ll get it eventually. Wait, Katie will know, I’ll ask her.”
“That’s cheating!” I cried, and kicked him playfully as I got up, ready for that shower. “Just pick something. I like food, so it’s impossible to go wrong.”
I TOOK ONE look at the restaurant and glared at him. “You asked Katie, didn’t you?”
“No.” Miles tried to suppress a grin and totally failed. “I just finally thought about your name for more than three seconds and it seemed like a decent bet.”
I laughed at that. “What can I say, my nonna likes to keep traditions alive, and by traditions, I mean food. She’s about as stereotypically Italian as you can get without turning into a cartoon. Dai, dai nipotino, you need to eat more. Mangia, mangia! Oh, Matteo, when are you going to bring home a nice man?”
We hadn’t moved since stepping out of the taxi, and still standing on the footpath, my reply seemed to give Miles pause. “She knows you’re gay?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Everyone knows. I told her maybe a year or so before I came out to the press.”
Despite being a Thursday night, the street was busy, people passing back and forth along the footpath around us like we were rocks in a colourful stream. “You weren’t worried she would dislike it?” he asked. “Dislike you?”
“Of course I was. But the idea I was supposed to think therewas something wrong with me also made me angry, so everyone got very aggressively informed.”
His lips twitched into a fresh smile. “Ah, so you were just entirely yourself about it.” He gestured to the door. “Shall we?”
The place he’d chosen looked nothing like a traditional Italian restaurant. With red booth seats, mirrors everywhere, a black and white striped ceiling, and neon lights, it was more like something out ofAlice in Wonderland. It even had a bar at the back seemingly made entirely of bottles, and was full of bright chatter and even brighter cocktails. No one paid us the slightest attention as we were shown to our table, though Miles seemed to have requested one a little out of the way, no doubt in the hope no one would trouble him for an autograph.
We took our seats, and as the waitress left us with a pair of menus, I looked across the table and realised I was out for dinner withMiles Callahan. Superstar tennis pro, Miles Callahan. Gorgeous cover model, Miles Callahan – a man whose package had sold a thousand pairs of Calvin Klein underwear. He deserved his full name tonight too, freshly-shaven in a casual, tailored button-up worn open to the collarbone, with a hint of that expensive cologne lingering about him. He was sharp and perfect, while I’d had to dig my emergency shirt from the bottom of my suitcase and roll up the sleeves. Despite this, he still looked entirely satisfied with his choice of evening plans.
It was hard to stop staring at him, so I dragged my gaze to the surrounding tables to check out the food instead. When a waitress came to ask if we wanted drinks, I pointed to a plate a few tables over. “What’s that? It looks like a shark fin.”
The waitress glanced over and grinned. “The incomparable lemon pie,” she said. “It’s lemon meringue, but well . . . the meringue is huge.”
“Are you already thinking about dessert?” Miles turned his menu over. “Oh no, there’s chocolate mousse. No, achocogasmmousse, dear god. I see this place might become an annual pilgrimage.”
I imagined him returning next year, bringing his sister and pointing out the ridiculously tall lemon meringue. By then, inviting me likely wouldn’t even occur to him.
“Mat?”
