Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
What is happening?
Why is he here?
He’s not my date.
Is he?
No, I’ve seen pictures of my date. He’s blond and says he’s six-one, which means he’s five-eleven. Deacon Black is at least six-three.
Mr. Black sees me as the hostess passes my table. His eyes dart from me to the empty chair opposite me and then back to my face. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t smile.
“Your usual table, Mr. Black,” the hostess says, as she shows him to a table for two a couple of tables away.
She hands him a menu and he doesn’t open it, he just places it down on the table.
This date was supposed to be distracting me from the man across the restaurant, not bring me into closer proximity to him.
But no doubt Mr. Black is waiting for his own date to arrive.
I check the time on my phone again. My date is now late. I hate that. But this isn’t Chilternshire. He’s probably navigating the traffic.
I check the app to make sure there aren’t any messages I’ve missed, but there’s nothing.
He must be on his way.
I study the menu like I’m going to be tested on it tomorrow. I just don’t want to look up. I don’t want to get caught in Mr. Black’s stare.
I see the hostess approach my table and my shoulders sag with relief. Finally my date has arrived. But when I look up, she’s showing a couple to the table next to mine.
My date is now ten minutes late. I check the app again. There’s still no message from him. Maybe he’s traveling on the subway. I’m not sure if they have internet down there. I hope he’s coming. Am I about to be stood up? It would be bad enough if I had to ask for the bill for my cocktail, with all the restaurant staff knowing I’ve been stood up. But with Mr. Black there? It feels extra embarrassing. I’m going to have to sit and watch while he greets his date.
The waitress approaches my table for the second time. “Can I get you anything while you wait?” she asks.
I shake my head a little, dread filling my stomach as realization dawns.
I think I may have been stood up.
In front of Deacon Black.
I’m not going to leave it more than fifteen minutes. At quarter past eight, I’m leaving. There’s no way I’m hanging around any longer.
Each minute that passes feels like an hour. I keep refreshing the app, but there are no new messages. I’m not going to message him and ask where he is. Our messages from last night were really clear. Eight o’clock at the French Kitchen. I close the menu and check the name of the restaurant, just to make sure I’m in the right place.
It gets to eight fifteen. I glance up at the door, one last time. Nothing. Nobody.
I catch the waitress’s eye and mouth that I want the bill.
I can’t look in Mr. Black’s direction, it’s too humiliating.
I’ve spent a grand total of five dollars and forty-six cents. I leave ten dollars in cash, so she doesn’t have to bring the machine over. It feels like that would draw attention to the fact that I’m leaving a restaurant without eating anything.
I stand up, take my bag. When I try to head to the exit, a diner has pushed their chair away from their table and is leaning back, and I can’t get through. To add insult to injury, I’m going to have to walk right past Mr. Black’s table. I close my eyes in a long blink before pulling in a breath and turning around.
This is going to be fine. It’s no big deal. I’m just going to pretend he’s not here.
I’m almost past his table when, out of nowhere, he says, “Aurora.”
My heart switches gear and clatters against my chest and I freeze.
How does he know my name?
I snap my head around to check I’m not hearing things. He’s looking right at me with those blue, blue eyes.
“Hi,” I say, in a panic.
“Please join me,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. What? Why on earth would he want me to join him?
He glances at the empty chair opposite him but doesn’t say any more.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” I say.
“Please sit,” he says, in a tone that conveys he doesn’t want me to argue with him.
My stomach clenches. He’s serious. But why? Does he want me to keep the seat warm for whichever woman he has joining him? Does he want to embarrass me?
I don’t understand.
But Mr. Black is one of the most important guests in the hotel. I also don’t want to upset him. Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m intrigued by him.
He doesn’t make a fuss by standing up and pulling out my chair, and even though some people might think it’s rude, I’m grateful. I don’t want to draw more attention to myself tonight.