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I open my mouth to discover him watching me. Conscious that I might have peppercorn sauce around my mouth, I wipe it surreptitiously and admit, “It’s a good steak.”
“I’m glad.” Clearly amused, he cuts into his and starts eating.
“I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” I eat one of the chunky chips. It has just the right amount of crunch on the outside while being nicely fluffy inside. “You like cooking?”
“Yeah. I find it relaxing.”
“What’s your favorite dish?”
We talk about cooking while we eat, while Kirsty MacColl singsFairytale of New York, and then Eartha Kitt singsSanta Baby. I drink my wine, and Alex pours me another glass. Slowly the food fills my stomach and the alcohol filters through me, and I start to relax.
When we’ve finished our main, Alex clears the table and brings out the dessert. “It’s something I invented just for you,” he tells me, placing one of the individual dishes before me. It looks like a trifle, with layers of cream and chocolate visible through the glass. “It’s a Jaffa Cake Tiramisu.”
I inhale with pleasure. “I love Jaffa Cakes! How…” I roll my eyes. “Finn?”
“Yep.” He sits opposite me with a grin.
I dip my spoon into it, scoop some up, and eat it. “Oh my God,” I mumble through a mouthful of mascarpone, orange liqueur, softened Jaffa Cakes, and chocolate. “Oh that’s amazing.”
He has a spoonful. “Oh yeah, that’s pretty good.”
“Pretty good? It’s orgasmic.”
He chuckles. “You’re easy to please.”
“I really am.”
He meets my eyes, and I wink at him.
He smiles. Then he reaches into his pocket, extracts a box, and slides it across the table to me. “Happy birthday.”
My eyebrows lift. It’s a velvet jewelry box. I lift my gaze to him. He returns it levelly, leaning back in his chair.
Heart racing, I look back at the box. I have another spoonful of the dessert, then, as I lick my lips, I open the box with shaking hands and study the contents.
It’s not a ring. Of course it’s not a ring. I feel stupid for even thinking that. But it is a beautiful piece of jewelry. It’s a silver chain with a pendant in the shape of an artist’s palette, complete with a tiny brush. The five hollows holding paint are each filled with a colored stone. I take it out and rest it on my fingers. I wonder where he got it? I haven’t seen anything like it in the local jewelers.
Then I frown and look a little more closely. In the center of the palette is the engraving of a plant—it’s a sprig of mistletoe.
“Turn it over,” he says.
I do as he says, and on the back is an inscription, ‘To M,’ a heart shape, and ‘from A.’
I lift my gaze to his.
“I had it made,” he says.
I look back at it. “Is it… silver?”
“Platinum.”
Oh fuck. “And the stones… are glass?”
“No, Missie.” He leans forward and points to each in turn. “Emerald, sapphire, ruby, yellow diamond, white diamond.” For once, he looks unsure. “Do you like it?”
My mouth has gone dry. “Oh, Alex. It’s beautiful.”
Relief lights his features. “I’m so glad.”
