Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
The place is alive and popping—red velvet booths hugging the walls, waiters in crisp white shirts weave between tables. I spot Blake at the corner booth. His broad shoulders tense in his suit jacket. His colleague and wife are chatting over glasses of wine, but as I approach, their eyes lift, and widen in that stunned way that makes me self-conscious. Heck, have I gone too far? I can see that the woman is dressed in a simple black dress, and the guy is not even wearing a tie. When Blake said casual, he really meant casual.
Blake stands as I reach the table, his hand brushing my waist in a quick, possessive touch, but his expression is guarded, those icy-gray eyes flicking over me without lingering.
"You look beautiful," he murmurs, but the compliment sounds polite and distant.
We settle in, and the dinner unfolds nicely enough. The food is divine. We start with a shared charcuterie board from the menu. Slices of Bayonne ham, Saucisson sec, Pate de campagne, Rilettes and rosette de Lyon, are draped over a wooden board together with pieces of Brie, Tomme de Savoie, Roquefort and Sante-Mare de Touraine. Dotted amongst the meat and cheese are cornichons, walnuts, and fresh figs.
Blake spreads pate and grainy mustard on a crusty baguette slice and bites cleanly into it, while I pretend to nibble at some dry sausage. Jason, Blake's colleague, mid-forties with an easy smile and a navy blazer over his shirt, keeps the conversation flowing, talking shop about some tech merger. His wife Sarah chimes in and sometimes laughs at his anecdotes as she sips her Chardonnay. Me, I cannot relate to anything they are talking about at all.
"This place is a gem," Sarah says in an effort to draw me into the conversation. "Their coq au vin is to die for. Have you tried it?"
What can I do, but shake my head and smile.
“Where do you normally go?” she asks curiously.
Oh God! We are stepping into dangerous territory here. I can feel Blake turn to look at me. “Oh, here there and everywhere,” I say, hoping it sounds friendly but imprecise, but it comes out sounding dismissive and arrogant, as if I am not interested in talking to her.
“Right,” she says and turns towards her husband.
Well, that went well. I stab my fork into a salad of seared tuna, nestled on crisp haricots verts and niçoise olives. The vinaigrette is described as tangy and light, and probably delicious, but I taste nothing.
Blake's quiet beside me. His knee brushes mine under the table now. and then, accidental or not, it sends little jolts up my leg. Though he barely looks my way.
"Yeah, the numbers look solid," he says in a clipped voice at one point to Jason, as he cuts into his steak frites.
That cold edge to him makes my chest tighten. I feel as if I've done something wrong without knowing what it is. The warmth and closeness of our garden episode feels like it is miles away now, replaced by this wall he's put up. It leaves me picking at my salad while laughter flows around me.
Dessert arrives, and it is tarte tatin, the caramelized apples warm and sticky under a dollop of crème fraîche. Blake's silence starts to weigh more heavily. My fork clinks against the plate without much enthusiasm, and I can't shake off the unease. My fingers twist the napkin in my lap. Sarah is telling a story about their vacation in Provence, her voice animated, and I catch Blake's glance flicking to me, finally. It's unreadable, and that stings. He always looks at me with desire in his eyes. Why invite me if he's going to freeze me out like this?
Dinner wraps up with coffee—espresso for him, strong and black, nothing for me. I’m done pretending to eat and drink.
I excuse myself and walk towards the restrooms. Standing for a moment in the corridor where it is much quieter, and lined with framed black-and-white photos of old Paris, I try to calm my temper.
After I’m done with the bathroom, I feel a great reluctance to go back to the table. In fact, I’m tempted to just walk out right now and leave him here with his friends to get on with it. The undeniable fact is, he ignored me all evening. What an asshole. I look at myself in the mirror and suddenly feel foolish. Maybe he’s embarrassed by me. Maybe I shouldn’t have dressed up. Fine. I decide to leave and send him a text from the car that I’ve gone home with a headache. He can make my excuses to his friends.
But as I exit the Ladies, to my surprise, I see Blake approaching, his presence filling the space before he speaks. I would have ignored him and walked on, but his hand catches my elbow gently but firmly, and turns me to face him.