Safeword (The Decadence Club Book 3)
Page 13
Now I knew why the Maîtred’ was rude. I didn’t fit in here.
I was in the middle of considering leaving when Mr. Snooty came back. “Forgive me, ma’am, and please allow me to lead you to the table that Mr. Reed is seated at.” His tone suggested that he wasn’t at all sorry.
If I was an asshole, I’d have something witty to say. But, alas, I wasn’t. I’d rather just avoid any sort of conflict, so I nodded uneasily and let him lead me through the restaurant. My stomach twisted when we drifted closer to the window, and I could see the line of his form. He was turned towards the window with his back facing the room. He didn’t see me coming, but there was a good chance he saw me pull up.
He probably saw my beater. He was going to know what type of person I was now. It was too late to run away. Well… not really, but if I ran now, I’d draw a whole lot more attention than I wanted.
I tried to stay behind the maitre d’ while he pulled out my chair. It didn’t work out well when he motioned me into it.
There was this awkwardness where both men were looking at me, and the only thing that saved me was when Michael spoke up. “That’s enough.” He stood and adjusted the jacket of his suit. From the way, he positioned himself it was as if he was put out by the Maître d’. Or maybe it was me.
He came to me, and I tensed as I prepared for some sort of consequence for my tardiness. His lips brushed against my cheek and I inhaled sharply, taking in his cologne. It was sharp and woody, affecting me in a way I didn’t expect. “You look lovely,” he murmured before he gestured to the chair. “Come, sit. Let us see about getting dinner before it gets too late.”
“O-okay.” I sat, grateful to have that moment to get off my feet. My arches were already aching from the shoes I wore. He managed to push the chair closer to the table without any sort of obvious exertion. No grunt, or sweat. “Thank you.”
There was a cloth napkin delicately folded on a setting that was equally pretty as it was intimidating. There were several knives and forks, too many. Were they all really that necessary?
Michael sat back down and adjusted his chair without any concern for my discomfort. “You are late.” He went right for it. “Ten minutes.” He shrugged a little. “Is this a habit of yours?” He picked up the leather-bound menu, seriously leather, and began to idly look through the pages.
“Not a conscious one.” I picked up the napkin, using it as a distraction to consider my words as I unfolded it and placed it in my lap. Then I followed suit with a menu of my own. The pages weren’t laminated or plastic, like any of the restaurants I usually frequented. Was this vellum? Maybe just a thick parchment? I pinched a page trying to tell before I realized it's not something I’d ever figure out. “You said dress classy. Classy isn’t something I normally do.”
“You did well enough.” He tilted his head as he eyed me. He watched me fidget with the menu like an idiot but didn’t say a word about it. That was polite of him. “You look better put together than you did the last time I saw you.”
“I was in more of a rush,” I offered him, seeing it as a good enough excuse. “Not that I wasn’t in a rush to get here.” I pressed forward immediately, looking down at the first page. There were names I was familiar with, so at least it wasn’t in a foreign language. My only hiccup was … there were no prices listed on it. “I just had more time to panic.”
“Panic?”
I shrugged helplessly at his raised eyebrow and made a show of paying a little extra attention to the menu. “I don’t frequently do this.”
“By this, you mean going to dinner?” There wasn’t anything demeaning in his voice, just a question. But there was curiosity there, or maybe he just couldn’t believe what I was saying.
“I mean going out with someone I don’t really know.” I tried to smile as I said it and it felt weak. I was just trying to make it look like I wasn’t a complete basket case.
We were interrupted by a waitress, I think that’s what they’re called in fancy places. Would they be called something different? She identified herself as Kara and asked for our wine choices. I didn’t want to drink in front of him, so I decided sticking with water would be the best bet. I was willing to bet they didn’t offer Coke products. He ordered a Shiraz, something I wasn’t familiar with, but if I ever drank wine it usually didn’t cost more than fifteen bucks.
The waitress left us to pursue the menu. I was having a hard time trying to decide how I was going to afford any of this. Aren't salads usually the cheap way to go? That’s something that seemed safe without having to worry about any sort of judgments. Maybe he’d think I was trying to lose weight.
“So, you are saying you don’t date?” He brought the conversation back to where we left it off at, his expression neutral as he finally decided to give the menu he was holding his attention. I shook my head, and both his eyebrows went up. He looked genuinely surprised. He pinned me with his eyes as he asked his next question, “You just venture to clubs then?”
“Not willingly.” I fought the need to look away from the pull of his gray eyes. I could see there was a need to understand. What to get for dinner was forgotten in favor of those eyes. “I have a friend that likes to drag me out of my cave.”
“Cave,” he echoed with a chuckle. But there was nothing mocking about it. Maybe he got my self-deprecating humor? “Let me guess, this friend was how you ended up at the Decadence club?”
I felt a little bit better, something about his tone made me feel just a moment of comfort. Like he understood. “Yes, it's not something I would have sought out myself.” I leaned back into my chair, needing to make sure I was clear about who I was. “I’m not the type to actively do…” I paused, then motioned between us.
“That’s vague.” He frowned a little. “Do you mean date? Or are you meaning the sex we’ve had?”
“Both?”
His brows drew together, and he just sat there staring at me. I tried not to let it get to me, but I could feel the sweat building on the back of my neck. Whatever understanding I had before was immediately gone. The waitress returned to take our orders. Doing the polite thing, she referred to me first.
“This will be separate,” I said without thinking because I was fine going dutch.
“No,” he said it with a seriousness that made us both look at him. “One check, do not split it.” There was a command in his voice that made me want to sink further down into my chair.
I ordered a caesar salad with grilled chicken. I wasn’t going to deviate from the plan simply because he was going to be paying for my meal. Honestly, I thought it was rude to order a big meal on someone else’s dime. He didn’t make any comment, but he ordered a filet mignon that made me a little jealous. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a steak, much less a good one. I tried not to whimper with the knowledge that I would have to settle for a salad because of stupid morals.
He leaned forward when the waitress left us, taking the menus with her and leaving me with nothing to distract myself with. He looked as if he were considering me in a totally different way. “Is that why you were talking to Angela?”
“No,” I said slowly. “I had a different reason to talk to Ms. Winters.” If he was asking, then he hadn’t been there for the beginning of our conversation. The smart thing, the good person thing, would be to tell him about my article. He was involved in it, even though I didn’t mention his name and I tried my best to be vague about his appearance. I bit my lip and found myself praying that he wouldn’t ask about the details of it.
He nodded and seemed to accept that when I didn’t elaborate. Funny how he mentioned vagueness before but was willing to let this slide. “That’s why you left me hanging for nearly a month?”
“Sort of.” It was a struggle to not fidget. When he leaned forward, I decided it would probably be better to elaborate on that. “It was a lot to process. So,” I shrugged helplessly at him, “I had to process it.”
His expression went dark. “I didn’t rape you.”
Michael’s expression didn’t change in the least. He just sat there looking as if he were trying to dissect me, maybe figure out some sort of hidden meaning behind me. “Why did you come back?”
I blinked. “Because you made me?” I thought that was obvious.
He pursed his lips and shook his head, it was clear that wasn’t what he meant. But he didn’t ask the question again. “What do you do for a living?” He asked instead, glancing over a shoulder as if he was resigned to not knowing the answer to his previous question.
“I’m in editing for a website. I proof and edit articles as well as setting them up in a template to be published.” It was a question I got asked often. Not by dates, of course, but my mom would ask on occasion like she thought the situation might change when it was clear it wouldn’t.
“Really?” He looked mildly curious again. “Do you design the templates?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I have a set number of templates that I assume are designed by my boss. I usually base which one I use on the tone of the article.”
“So you don’t do any of the actual web design?” I couldn’t tell if he was fishing for information or just trying to make the conversation go forward.
“No.” I shook my head and eyed him curiously. “What do you do?” I asked as if I hadn’t looked him up before. But I didn’t want him to continue to lead the conversation, there was some need to ask questions and contribute. I usually flopped at this, because I was terrible at small talk. One of the reasons I had few friends, the friends I did have were understanding and overlooked my faults.
But would he?
“I am a rich man that supplements my richness with investments,” he said with a slight roll of his eyes like this was something he went over regularly. I wasn’t surprised by his answer, just the sarcasm that he used with it. Like money was something not to take seriously.
I mean, given the restaurant and the way he dressed it was obvious he had some money. Plus the membership at the club wasn’t cheap. I didn’t get the chance to question his tone, as the waitress sat our meal in front of us. I waited politely for him to cut into his steak to give his approval as the girl poured his wine.
But once we were left to our dinner, I couldn’t let it go. “Is there a reason why you said it like that?”
He ignored me for a beat, cutting into his steak and giving it a taste. I watched him chew and waited for him to acknowledge my question. When it didn’t appear that he was going to, I got irritated and looked down at the array for forks.
Which was supposed to be the salad fork?
Eventually, he made a noise. “No one is watching us or judging which one you use. Eat.” It was in a commanding tone that I couldn’t ignore.
I picked up the closest fork, deciding that I’d rather focus on eating than deal with him if he was going to be condescending. These ‘dates’ were a bad idea, and I knew it I shouldn’t have agreed to this. I bit into a piece of lettuce and immediately changed my mind. So, there’s not much to a Caesar salad but lettuce, croutons, dressing, and if you’re lucky parmesan cheese. I know this, I’ve made attempts at getting in shape and have had many a salad. But this one was good enough for me to ignore my irritation and just eat.
“You said you don’t date,” he commented after taking a sip of his wine. “Is there a particular reason for that?”
He was going to ignore my question. I grimaced as I looked up at him. “It’s not obvious?” If he was going to give me attitude without an explanation, I felt like I had a reason to return it. He only put down his fork and knife, looking at me with an expression that said that it was anything but obvious. I didn’t refrain from rolling my eyes, and I gestured to the current situation. “I am shit at this.”
“What?” It felt like with that question he was digging for more, forcing me to say what should have been plain as day.
“Small talk,” I didn’t bother to hide my frustration, “getting to know people, the awkwardness of this right here is so stifling. I’m going to choke on it.” I sat back in my chair and released a breath. “Who really wants to deal with that?”
Michael continued to look at me with one brow up and a lack of understanding. Or maybe that’s what I thought the gaze meant. It felt like it was an hour of him just staring at me, either trying to figure me out or maybe figure out a response. Of course, I buckled under his gaze. I was never really good at staring contests. When he didn’t say anything, I went back to eating.
“Small talk is a difficult thing to get through at times.” It sounded like he was agreeing with me. I wasn’t going to get my hopes up, but I still looked up to see his expression. There was a slight frown on his face, and he looked around us as if he were considering his words. “But if you don’t make the attempt how do you meet people?”
“Work.” I shrugged helplessly. “I mostly depend on people to look past the general mess that I am.”
He hummed and went back to his own dinner. “How is that working out for you?”
“I have a close friend or two,” I answered weakly. Though Liz was the one to get me into this and I didn’t have anyone else. I didn’t know whether or not I could count her as a friend. But, she talked to me and after her making sure I got to work when I slept in the other day I knew she felt some responsibility for me.
“And you’re satisfied with barely a handful of ‘close friends’ and no real meaningful relationships?” He didn’t sound like he was mocking me, but a glance up at his face didn’t tell me anything.
“I don’t know why it’s a concern of yours.” I put down the fork. “But if this is going to be the focus of the conversation I’ll pass.” It was a shame, too, because the salad was good. It had to be the dressing, there was no way lettuce could have that much flavor.
“You’re going to leave?” He looked surprised, and he hastily put his fork and knife down. I didn’t bother to answer. I stood, and before I could even step away from the table he snapped, “Sit back down.” it was loud enough that the older couple that had been sitting beside us jumped a little.
The older woman blinked at Michael curiously while her husband made a complaint about young people being rude. Me? I sat down. I wasn’t going to argue him. He made a noise, giving the people that objected to his outburst a glare before he returned his attention to me. “I’m surprised you were going to do that.” He gave me a look that might be admiration. “I expected you to let me keep talking to you like that.”
“I don’t have answers to the questions you’re asking,” I replied honestly. I felt embarrassed, especially since he drew attention to us by getting loud. I shifted in my chair uneasily and avoided looking at him. I didn’t like confrontation, and here he was forcing it. “I’m not going to sit here and let you judge me just because you don’t understand me.”
Michael didn’t look offended, not from the quick glances I took of him. That was something of a relief. He nodded and pursed his lips, looking as if he were considering his words carefully. “You depend on others to look past your quirks from the start. I suppose that has its advantages versus waiting to expose them later in a relationship.” He shrugged a little like he rationalized my awkwardness as something that could be deemed normal to some extent.
I took a sip of my water to cover the fact that I didn’t know what else to say. “So…” I cleared my throat as I considered the plate of salad in front of me. “You're done with the invasive questioning?”
“No.” He didn’t seem at all opposed to continuing eating. “If anything, I have more questions, but I will limit it to things that directly involve me.” He paused to sip his wine before carrying on. “Instead of creating a scene by leaving, you can
just elect to not answer the question. How about that?”
That seemed reasonable. There was only one thing I had to ask, “Why?” Because, really, why else would anyone want to struggle through conversation with me?
“Well…” It looked like I caught him off guard, like he hadn’t expected me to question him at all. He was quiet for long enough that I couldn’t keep from looking at him. He met my gaze and almost looked apprehensive. “I would like the opportunity to get to know you better. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“But I can’t question you in return?” It didn’t seem fair that he got answers and I didn’t. “Without you being put out by it and sarcastic.”
“You work for a website that specializes in news of a sort, right?”
“And you think I’m going to know all the details? In editing?” I decided I wasn’t done with my own meal and began to nibble at the grilled chicken that had been laid out neatly in the bed of lettuce. “Do I look like a journalist to you?”