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He gives a short laugh, then moves back as Cesare arrives with our platter. “Thank you.”
“Can I get you anything else?” the manager says.
“Another cocktail?” Mack asks me. When I nod, he says, “The same or a different one?”
“Mm, different. I’ll try a Christmas Pudding Martini, please.” It has syrup, sultanas, and a cinnamon stick.
“Make that two,” Mack says, and Cesare goes off.
“I can’t believe we’re being served by the manager,” I say, studying the platter.
“He likes to give the personal touch to his favorite customers.”
“I’ve never dated a guy who’s a restaurant’s favorite customer. I could get used to that.” I bite my lip then. I don’t want to imply that I’m expecting a second date. Mack has made it quite clear he’s not interested in a relationship, and I’m determined not to be another Felicity.
But he just chuckles and takes a piece of the extra focaccia. “I’m starving.”
“I have a feeling you’re always starving.”
“You’ve been talking to Nadine. She reckons my father must have been an elephant.”
That makes me laugh. “I like a man who has a healthy appetite.”
“I’ve certainly got that.”
“I was talking about food.”
“So was I. Now who has the dirty mind?”
I chuckle and study the platter, which has pieces of toasted focaccia with rosemary butter, halloumi nuggets with spicy plum sauce, olives, hummus, tiny peppers stuffed with cream cheese, and lots of other little veggie nibbles. “This is amazing.”
“Dig in,” he says, and picks up a piece of quiche.
We eat for a while, talking about the food and being vegetarian, and then discussing the Christmas martini when it comes. I’m gradually starting to relax, warmed through by the pleasant atmosphere, the alcohol, the food, and the company. I guess he hasn’t gotten where he is by not being able to turn on the charm, and it’s evident no matter who he speaks to—my friends, his brother, his friends at Huxley’s, receptionists, or waiters. He has an easy smile and a way of making you feel special when he talks to you.
I eat about a third of the platter, and he easily puts away the other two thirds. The guy eats like a horse; no wonder he moves as if he’s nuclear powered.
Briefly, I wonder how energetic he is in the bedroom. I bet he can keep going for hours. What’s the record for how many times a couple have had sex in one night?
“You’re thinking about sex again,” he says, pointing a cocktail stick holding an olive at me before eating it. “I can tell.”
“How?”
“Because you’re awake.” He laughs and sips his drink.
I giggle. “In this instance, you were right.”
“Elaborate.”
“Mmm… no, I don’t think so.”
“It wasn’t a question.” He gives me a direct look.
“Ooh.” I run a finger around the top of my glass and then lick it. “You’re quite bossy.”
“I told you, I don’t make a good sub.”
“Women have tried? God help them.”
