Page 105 of Read My Lips

Shit.

A waiter stepped out of the inter-dimensional portal to nowhere he’d been loitering in, like the bloody door man in my joke about the lift. Wincing back a pace, I willed myself an inch taller, up on the balls of my toes, clenching everything, hoping he hadn’t noticed Simon minorly foreplaying me under the back flap of my jacket.

Obviously, Simon retained calm. “Reservation under Azie. Thank you ever so much.”

“Follow me, gentlemen.” The waiter plucked up a pair of pleather-bound menus and a wine list, totally five-starring it. Didn’t even look at me funny trying to readjust while I hurried after their long-legged glide. Geniality dialled to thirteen, he first-named Simon like they played in a competitive squash league, or were very distantly related via a wealthy aunt, and effused us over to a round table slap-bang in the middle of the window wall. On cinematic, widescreen display.

“As requested. Very visible from the street.” He didn’t bother removing the third place setting, which had to be for when Luke turned up.

As if I needed any more reminders this was all for show.

Simon plucked up his napkin unfurling the fan shape before he’d even sat down. The waiter whipped mine off the table, and I nearly lamped him when he lunged towards my lap with it.

“Do you mind?” He did not need to go investigating my enthusiasm to be here. “What are you⁠—?”

“Your napkin, sir?”

“Oh.”

Simon glittered amusement at me. Clearly the dick had known about this little dance in advance.

“Right. Thanks.” Hands held up at eye level, I leaned back in my chair to let the waiter drape it down. Halfway between the awkwardness of a lap dance you didn’t want, and being stopped by the police in countries where they actually carried guns. Semi: officially deflated.

Napkin drapery accomplished, the waiter portalled off again.

“Bit flash, isn’t it?” I prodded at the orchid arching elegantly out of the vase in the middle of the table and still couldn’t tell whether it was real or not. “What was all that about?” I gestured in the vague direction of my lap.

“They’re Michelin starred.”

“I feel like you think that answers my question.”

Simon laughed. “It is a little weird, I agree.”

Bread arrived. I tore hunks off my roll and mashed the middle into little balls between my thumb and forefinger while Simon neatly buttered his.

“They’re not going to cut my dinner up too are they?”

Simon’s foot nudged against my leg under the table. Neither of us pulled back.

“Ben, it’s just a restaurant. They do good food. We’re here to eat it.”

And the rest.

“Don’t forget about the Couple Goals.” Out of the window, I half expected a crowd to have assembled the way Simon had been going on about this date. But no one had their noses pressed up against the glass. Across the street, someone could have been taking a picture with their phone, but really, it was too far away to tell. “Shouldn’t we be signing so anyone watching can eavesdrop more effectively?”

Simon’s expression shuttered for a bare second, and the blankness sucked the air out of my lungs. But then it was gone, replaced with another layer of polish. “Excellent idea.”

It wasn’t. I wanted to take it back. No one was watching. No one cared. It could just be us without his showmanship. In this stupid-posh place with too much cutlery. On a date, like the ones he’d go on when he found someone he’d tolerate them for. In between all the casual sex and playing thirds.

He reached across the table top, smoothing his thumb over my knuckles, batting his eyes with ridiculous theatricality. Because we were supposed to be enjoying this place. All its opulence perfectly lit for glamorous lifestyle shots.

“Darling Ben, I can’t keep my hands off you,” he signed, one-handed, fully deadpan. “After this? Home, and I’ll file you like a tax receipt.” One eyebrow arched up. “Might need to revisit my non-business vocabulary.”

As if his workplace vocabulary didn’t frequently consist of things more explicit than that. I scoffed, despite myself. “I don’t think so.”

“Too much?” he asked, smile quirking.

My lizard brain flashed me an out of body drone-shot of myself grabbing Simon’s tie across the perfectly set table – white cloth, sparkling glasses – and crushing our mouths together, swiping crockery to the floor like we were starring in a badly acted, mildly pornographic soap from the 1990’s. Fantasy Simon would split the buttons of his shirt and rip it right off with a double-fisted grab, and I would clamber over the table, just to get my hands on him.