I’ve only been to a few nice restaurants in my life. And by a “few” I mean, quite literally, two or three. Fine dining isn’t exactly a priority when you’re living off of the salary I am, but I’ve treated myself once or twice, when the occasion has called for it.
But Ventine’s makes all those other restaurants look like those cheap family chains—you know, the ones that offer “Two For” Tuesdays and $6 pitchers of margaritas on Ladies’ Night. Ventine’s is swanky with a capital “S.” White linens, silver fixtures, soft golden light designed to arouse all sorts of appetites. The walls are covered in dark, glossy wood paneling, and there’s a long, marble bar backed by a mirror with silver filigree along the edges.
It’s the grand opening, so the crowd is chic and lively and well dressed. I feel a little out of place among these people, even though I’m sure none of them will spare me a second glance. My dress might have come from a department store, but it’s as sleek and classic as anything from a designer boutique. Still, I feel like I’m walking into a scene from someone else’s life. Someone who goes to fancy parties and ribbon cuttings and drinks champagne with their dinner every Wednesday just because.
Okay, I’m exaggerating. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thrilled to be here. I glance up at Calder. He’s used to events like this, places like this, people like this. I wonder, suddenly, how it feels for him to walk in here after this life was stolen away from him. But he smiles down at me, looking completely confident and comfortable. And when he catches the eye of the maître d’, the man comes rushing over as if Calder owns the place.
“Good evening, Mr. Cunningham, Ms. Frazer,” the maître d’ chirps, nodding to each of us in turn. “Please, let me take you to your table.”
Calder keeps his hand on my waist, holding me close to him as we move through the restaurant. I’m comforted by the heat of his fingers through my dress, a whisper of touch in the noise of this room. I might not belong with these people, but I belong with him.
“Martin promised me the best table in the house,” he tells me. “I told him I’d settle for nothing less.”
I grin. “I guess it pays to know the chef.”
The maître d’ leads us to a table near the back of the restaurant. It’s out of the main hustle and bustle of the floor, offering us a fair amount of privacy, but it still has a good view of the rest of the room. There’s a bouquet of amethyst calla lilies lying across one of the places.
“I almost went for roses,” Calder says, leaning down and speaking in my ear as he hands them to me. “But I thought these were more suitable.”
“They’re beautiful.” I bury my nose among the petals.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the fairy tale isn’t over yet.
Calder pulls out my chair for me, and his fingers graze my bare arm as he helps me sit. He takes the lilies from me and places them in a crystal vase already waiting on our little table. He prepared for this, thought out every little detail. It stirs something in my belly.
I feel Calder’s eyes on me as he takes his own seat, but I’m too overwhelmed to meet his gaze. This is too perfect. I’m not used to this.
Instead, I look out across the restaurant. This place truly is lovely. And if I can trust the sea of aromas greeting me, the food will be absolutely heavenly. Not that I’d expect any less. I tasted Martin’s food at the Cunningham mansion, back when the chef was still in Calder’s employ. He worked with the family for years—Calder’s entire life, essentially—but keeping a personal chef is a luxury Calder can no longer afford.
Not that it seems to matter. When I glance back up at Calder, he looks every bit the self-assured billionaire he always was. He’s watching me with those dark eyes, a small, satisfied smile playing at his lips.
“I hope you trust me,” he says.
“Since when was that a good idea?”
He leans forward and closes his hand around mine. “I’ve already arranged the menu for tonight. On Martin’s recommendations, of course.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Making decisions for me already?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “Believe me, I know better. But I want you to feel taken care of tonight.”
The idea pleases me more than I want to admit. God, what is he doing to me? By the end of the night I’m going to be a pathetic, simpering mess.
Fortunately, I’m saved from having to respond—and certainly making a fool of myself—by the arrival of the executive chef himself.
“Martin!” I exclaim. My acquaintance with the man was brief, but I always liked him, and I’m thrilled that he found this opportunity.
“Ms. Frazer,” he says, reaching out and clasping my hand. “A pleasure, as always.”
Calder’s standing, and he reaches out and claps Martin on the shoulder.
“Congratulations, old man,” he says. “Thank you for the table.”
Martin’s grin widens. “Actually, I should be thanking you, Mr. Cunningham. I’m sorry I can’t linger and chat, but I wanted to come by and say hello before the main rush. And assure you, of course, that I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you have the perfect evening.”
“I have every confidence it will be,” Calder says.
“I hope you two brought your appetites,” Martin says. “Everything’s on the house tonight, of course.”
Martin retreats back to the kitchen, but no sooner has he gone than a waiter arrives with a bottle of champagne—some crazy-ass expensive champagne by the look of it.
“A gift from the chef,” he says.
I look over at Calder. “I guess this means he approves of me?”
The waiter pops the cork, and I watch him pour the golden liquid into a pair of glass flutes.
Calder, however, is watching me.
“The very first night Martin met you,” Calder says, “he told me he expected to be seeing a lot more of you.”
“You’re just teasing me.”
“Not at all. Sometimes I think Martin knows what I need better than I do.”
Again, he seems to know just how to throw me off-balance. Flustered, I quickly grab my glass of champagne.
“Look at that,” he says. “Five minutes in and I’ve already got you speechless.”
In spite of myself, I feel my flush deepen. “Try not to get a big head.”
He reaches over and slides his hand along my arm. “I like that I make you nervous.”
Nervous? My stomach is doing freaking somersaults. If I don’t change the subject, I’m going to end up a puddle of mush on the floor.
“What did Martin mean when he said he should be thanking you?” I ask.
Calder leans back in his seat. “It was nothing. I have a few connections in the restaurant industry, so I put him in contact with the owners of this place. It was the least I could do, all things considered.”
“He seemed excited.”
“He’s thrilled. I talked to him earlier this week, when he was making a few last-minute tweaks to the menu. You should have heard him. Like some bright-eyed, bushy-tailed upstart fresh out of culinary school.” Calder looks down at the table. “He worked in restaurants before, you know. The last place had two Michelin stars. My father must have paid him handsomely to convince him to leave that and come work for us.” His smile fades, he shifts in his seat.
I frown. “You don’t believe your father forced him to work for you?”
“Not forced, certainly. But hearing Martin talk about how excited he is to run a full kitchen again—it makes me wonder. If he hadn’t come to us, he might have had an entire restaurant empire by now. He would have had plenty of accolades, of course. Cookbooks, probably. Maybe even his own TV program.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Do you really see Martin as some celebrity chef running around and screaming at people on a reality show?”
That earns me a small smile. “Of course not. I just wonder if he regrets it all, sometimes.”
“I don’t believe for a minute that Martin regrets anything.” I reach over and take his hand. “He could have walked away at any time and had a dozen job offers, but he didn’t. He stayed because he loved working for you guys. You might not be related by blood, but you can’t tell me that man isn’t part of your family.” These last few months, he’s been the only family Calder has had. Calder’s own sister, Louisa, skipped away back to Southeast Asia as soon as their father’s funeral was over. I know she’s heavily involved in some philanthropic projects over there, but it still infuriates me that she’d run off to the other side of the world instead of helping her brother sort through the mess they inherited.
His thumb skims across the back of my hand. I look for some hopeful reaction to my words—a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, maybe, or a glimmer of understanding in his eyes, but I get nothing.
“Calder,” I say, giving his hand a squeeze.
He looks up at me then, and the look on his face nearly breaks my heart. We haven’t talked in depth about all of the changes he’s dealt with these past few months. His father’s death, his financial ruin, the loss of his childhood home—any or all of those things would have broken a weaker man. We walked through the house together, he and I, a few weeks ago. I held his hand and listened to his stories, helped him say goodbye. But it’s one thing to lend a hand or an ear, and quite another to know what to say to a person who’s just lost everything, whose entire life has been upended before your eyes. I can’t even begin to understand what he’s feeling, and anything I might say sounds so trite in my head.
My only solace is that the press hasn’t picked up on it yet. There was a flurry of interest in Wentworth Cunningham’s death, but it died down pretty quickly. The Cunninghams’ people must have worked overtime to keep the rest of it out of the news, but now that he can no longer employ any PR geniuses to hide his family’s dirty laundry, I know it’s only a matter of time. The tabloids will eat this up.
And I can’t do anything. Except offer that hand, or ear—or, all else failing, a suitable distraction.
I slide my fingers out of his and slip my hand beneath the table, finding his knee. His eyes widen as my touch moves up his leg, but then there it is: the curl of his lip, the flash of light in his eyes. It’s like he comes back to life again.
His hand grabs mine, stopping my advance.
“Be careful,” he says, his voice low and warm. “If you get me worked up, I might have to whisk you out of here before we even get to taste the appetizers.”
“Sounds like a challenge.”
“Don’t tempt me.” His own fingers slide over to my leg, slipping over the thin fabric of my dress. “Or I’ll have you squirming right here in the middle of the restaurant.”
His hand is dangerously close to fulfilling that promise. Just the promise of his words is arousing me, and I shift slightly as the blood starts to rush between my legs. I have no doubt Calder would take great joy in getting me off right here. There’s something delightfully dirty about it, touching each other in this crowded, bustling room.
“Well?” he says, probing further. “Would you like to play a little game? See how quietly you can come?”
Oh, God. It wouldn’t take much, not at this point.
I might have let him do it, too, but the waiter suddenly appears with a tray full of appetizers. I jerk my hand back from Calder’s leg, but he continues to caress my inner thigh, even as the waiter arranges the dishes on the table in front of us.
I’m getting wetter by the second. He has me at a disadvantage, considering he has my panties. I have to bite down on my lip to keep from moaning when he begins to rub his finger along the length of my folds.
“All right, all right,” I say as soon as the waiter leaves. “I forfeit. I lose.”
“If we were anywhere but Martin’s restaurant, you’d be in deep, deep trouble.”
I don’t doubt it. Calder removes his hand from between my legs, and as I watch he brings his wet finger up to his lips.
Holy crap.
My whole body’s on fire. I want to look away, but I can’t tear my eyes from the sight of him tasting me on his finger. His own gaze remains locked on me, and I’m afraid those piercing dark eyes will send me over the edge. By the time he’s licked himself clean, I’m barely breathing.
Good thing there’s plenty to distract me on the table. Martin wasn’t joking when he hinted that we had a big meal ahead of us. For our first course, the waiter has brought us an array of dishes: steamed mussels, salmon and asparagus bouchées, stuffed figs, prosciutto-wrapped prawns. My mouth waters just looking at it all.
Calder is raising his glass of champagne.
“A toast,” he says. “To tonight.”
I lift my own glass. “To Martin, on his new adventure here at Ventine’s. And for providing us with this fine bubbly.”
“And to us.” Calder’s eyes smolder over the rim of his flute. “May this be the first date of many.”
I feel my cheeks go hot again as we clink our glasses. His gaze lingers on me, even as I take a drink. The champagne is bright and crisp and sweet on my tongue, but I don’t enjoy it as much as I might because I’m suddenly overwhelmed again by the intensity of all this. Of the stirring in my chest, of the heat running up and down my spine.
The feeling only increases as we continue our meal. The courses keep coming, and in between bites I find myself falling further and further under Calder’s spell. The couple of phone conversations we’ve had over the past few weeks have been pleasant—more than pleasant—but they’re nothing compared to having him next to me. Even when we’re only speaking of silly things—of the food in front of us, maybe, or the recent unseasonable rains—it means something, to be sitting here next to him. To watch his lips form the words, to watch his eyes widen or brighten or darken in response to what I say, to have him close enough to touch, whenever I want.
Now that I’ve calmed down, it seems possible. This—he and I, doing this “relationship” thing—seems possible.
By the time the entrées arrive, we’ve moved on to more serious topics. Over a plate of roasted duck with a spicy apricot glaze, I update Calder on the madness going on at the Center now that we’ve started renting out our gallery space. I keep it light—I’d rather not go into my horror stories about some of the clients I’ve had to deal with, and I don’t admit that we’re still struggling financially—but even though Calder smiles encouragingly, I can see the sadness, the guilt behind his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say when I realize what I’m doing. “I didn’t mean to—I’m not trying to dominate the conversation.”
“You’re not.”
“I’ve been going on for the last ten minutes, at least.”
“I don’t mind. I could listen to you talk about the Center all day. Your whole face lights up.”
It’s a convincing lie. On a different day, under different circumstances, I might not have even noticed his remorse, but I’m beginning to learn how to read him. He wants me to think that he’s okay, but how can he listen to me talk about the Center without remembering his family’s struggles? I remember his expression when he studied the class photos back in my office, and I don’t want to say anything that might take him back to that dark place.
“What about you?” I ask him quickly. “What have you been up to since the last time we spoke?”
“Nothing terribly interesting, I’m afraid. Still dealing with some lingering financial matters.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Tim—that’s my family’s financial advisor—says I have a knack for numbers. Though I suspect he’s only delighted that I actually take his advice, unlike my father. I still can’t quite believe he let things get as bad as they did.”
His face is growing dark again.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Don’t apologize.” He looks down at his plate. “Honestly, if you take away the… family element, I actually find myself enjoying the work. It’s very diverting. Productive.”
He glances back over at me. “But it’s not exactly good conversation for a date, is it?”
I don’t want to discourage him from talking about it. Honestly, I’ve been worried about him, and I’m glad to hear that he finds some satisfaction in the work, that he feels like he’s doing something constructive.
But he’s already moved on, launching into praises of the duck.
The call comes halfway through the entrées, right after we’ve started a second bottle of wine. Calder looks sheepish as he tugs the buzzing phone from his pocket.
“I’m sorry. I thought I turned this off.” But as his thumb moves to the power button, his eyes flick down at the screen and he frowns.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Forgive me, Lily,” he says. “Do you mind if I…”
“Go ahead.”
He gives a nod and answers the call. Normally I knock off a few points if a guy pulls out his cell on a date, but Calder’s been dealing with a lot recently, so I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Still, I’m only expecting him to exchange a few quick words with his lawyer or something, so it’s a bit of a shock when he stands up.
“I’ll be right back,” he tells me.
I watch his retreating form as he weaves through the dining room, back toward the restaurant entrance, then I take up my fork and grab another piece of duck. I pick around the various plates of food, trying a little bit of everything as I wait. But as the minutes tick by and Calder still doesn’t return, I start to get a little antsy.
He probably just doesn’t want to discuss delicate financial matters in a room full of people, I tell myself. Even in this secluded corner, there’s no telling who might hear something. He’s doing his best to protect what’s left of his family name. I refuse to fault him for wanting a little privacy.
But it’s impossible to keep my gaze from drifting back to the door again and again. I try to distract myself with the food, tearing my way through the rest of the duck even though I’m more than full at this point. I’m already digging into the venison steak by the time I finally spot him moving back across the restaurant toward me.
He looks tense, scattered. His brows are drawn together, and he jerks his hand through his hair as he strides back toward me. When he sees me watching him, though, his hand drops and he puts on a smile.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says when he rejoins me at the table. He tips my head up, kisses me sweetly on the lips. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“You better,” I joke.
His smile widens, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“Of course.” He says it too quickly, too lightly. “It was just Tim. He had a few questions for me.”
He’s being purposefully vague, and though I don’t want to pry, I also don’t want him to have to deal with this on his own.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“It’s nothing, I promise.” He grabs my hand and brings it to his lips, kisses the fingers one by one. “Certainly not important enough to spoil our date.”
I want to believe him, but as the night progresses, it’s clear he’s preoccupied. Or maybe “preoccupied” isn’t the right word—it’s as though he’s trying too hard to pretend that nothing’s wrong. He’s still sweet, complimentary—but there’s a formality to it that wasn’t there before. The anxious awkwardness I feared earlier returns in full force. Something’s shifted between us, and I don’t know how to fix it.
But I’ll be damned if I don’t try.
“You have to taste this,” I say, offering him a bite of the rich marquise cake from among our spread of desserts.
Calder plays along, opening his mouth for my fork. His eyes never leave my face, but his intent gaze makes it all the easier to sense the distraction lingering beneath.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” I ask after I’ve set down my fork again.
“Of course,” he says. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind recently. But I don’t want to think about any of that right now. I’m here, with you, and that is what I want to focus on.” He raises my hand to his mouth once more, only this time he plants a kiss on my palm. The heat of his lips sends a little shiver up my arm.
I offer him a smile, but his answer doesn’t completely satisfy me. Something happened during that call, whether he wants to admit it or not. But I don’t want to spend the rest of our date arguing over what may or may not be my business. Calder and I aren’t used to leaning on each other for emotional support just yet. In the meantime, our time together is an escape—a few moments stolen away from the ups and downs of everyday life. I can still be that for him, if nothing else.
By the time dinner is over and he’s driving me back to my car, I feel much better. I was putting too much pressure on us too soon. I had an amazing time tonight, and I’m looking forward to showing Calder exactly how amazing.
He insists on following me back to my apartment and “walking me to my door.” The entire drive there I imagine exactly what I’m going to do to him—how I’m going to touch and taste and tease him. How I’m going to get him back for leaving me without my underwear all night.
When we get to my apartment building, he follows me up the steps toward my door, and the butterflies return to my stomach. Why the hell am I so nervous? Calder is nervous, too—or am I just reading too much into the way he curls and uncurls his fingers around his keys? Have years of dealing with that uncomfortable post-date will-he-or-won’t-he dance at the door conditioned me to expect the worst?
“So,” I say, trying to make light of my nerves. “Should I be worried that you’re going to sleep with me and never call again?”
He takes the joke well, at least. He chuckles as his fingers close around the keys once more, and his free hand moves to my waist.
We’ve reached the door now, and he turns so that he’s facing me. He looks as if he wants to say something, but the words never come. Instead, he just stands there, staring down at me, and I can almost feel the distance stretching between us.
Time to nip that in the bud.
I grab him by the front of the shirt and yank him down to me, capturing his mouth with my own. He gets over the initial shock surprisingly fast. Before I can even catch a breath, he’s moved—forcing me back against the door, trapping me beneath his body. His lips force mine apart, his hands run up and down my hips, my waist, my breasts…
Any awkwardness I feel disappears with his touch. With the heat of him, the taste of him, the smell of him. This is how we connect, how we communicate—through our bodies. I know everything he can’t say, and he knows all of my fears. We can play at dating all we want, but the truth lies right here, between us.
I reach up and go for the buttons on his shirt, pulling them apart one by one. Calder growls and reaches around behind me, his hands sliding down to cup my ass. He begins to tug the fabric of my dress up toward my hips, and I hear myself moan in anticipation of his touch against my bare flesh.
He pauses.
I’ve reached the last button on his shirt, but in my excitement my fingers are fumbling.
“Wait,” he says, his hands closing around mine.
“It’s a quiet building,” I assure him. “Everyone else is probably in bed already.” Still, I reach for my purse, for my keys. It will probably be more comfortable in my bed anyway.
But Calder shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean.”
My keys are already out of my purse, but I don’t turn around to face the door. “I don’t understand.”
He lets out a long, shaky breath—in that way people do before they tell you something they know you won’t want to hear. Something clenches in my stomach.
“What is it?” I prompt.
“Lily,” he says slowly. “I was thinking, back in the car… Maybe we should slow things down for a bit.”
There it is. Like a punch to my gut. I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe, but I don’t want him to see how much of a shock his words are to me.
“What do you mean by ‘slow things down’?” I ask, impressing myself with how calm, how emotionless my voice sounds.
He’s studying my face closely, I can feel it, but I don’t dare look him in the eye.
“Maybe…” he says. “Maybe we should just try dating for a little while. No sex.”
No… sex. It takes my brain a moment to process what he’s suggesting. “Why?”
“I just don’t want us to get in over our heads,” he says.
I finally summon the nerve to look up at him, and when I do, he’s raking his hand through his hair. He’s having trouble looking at me.
“Is that okay?” he says. “I think it might be good for us. Think of it as a game.”
Good for us? I’m not sure how to interpret that, but I’m afraid to ask.
“All right,” I agree, because I’m not sure what else to say. “Just dating, no sex.”
He smiles, but it’s a small smile, as if he’s still uncertain at my response—or is he uncertain about his own suggestion? I’ve dated enough to know that one partner wanting “slow things down” is never a good thing.
But I won’t argue with him here. I won’t let him see how much his words have hurt me.
“In that case,” I say, “I guess this is goodnight.”
He nods. I can’t read the expression in his eyes—is that regret?—but I’m not sure I want to know the truth. I turn and unlock the door with shaking hands. His eyes bore into my back, but he doesn’t try to stop me.
“Goodnight, Lily,” he says as I retreat inside the apartment.
I stand by the door long after I’ve closed it, hoping, in my pathetic little heart, that he’ll change his mind. That he’ll come back and knock on my door and tell me it was all some sick joke.
But he doesn’t.