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This date should’ve been romantic. I mean, it was, objectively.
First, Max picked me up, driving a Porsche. A fucking Porsche! Just to drive around downtown! I honestly didn’t think it was his intention to brag about how rich he was; it was just ingrained in who he was at this point, like he was acting the part of rich celebrity. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about his status. I was jealous of his income simply because of the security it provided him. I would love to be able to pay my bills without worrying about how I would do it again next month. The way Max was showing off without thinking? All it did was make me feel even poorer than I was.
Then he took me shopping at this super expensive clothing store, because obviously I didn’t own a suit or anything fancy. I mean, I used to work at a mechanic, where I wore grease-stained jeans and t-shirt, and then The Bar Cherry, where the saying “less is more” was applied to clothes—as in less clothing equaled more tips.
I reluctantly agreed to Max buying me a suit because it seemed like an investment for my current job, but he didn’t stop there. He bought me three suits, plus a bunch of casual clothes, all with designer labels. It didn’t matter how much I protested, my words fell on deaf ears. He just kept grabbing shirts and pants from the racks, seemingly at random. When the cashier rang it up, my stomach twisted so tightly that I nearly barfed, but Max just passed over his credit card like it was nothing.
Afterward, Max drove us back to The Scarlet Hotel, where he had the front desk staff take all the bags and packages up to his room for us. We left the car with the valet, and as the car disappeared around the corner to the right, from the left came the clip-clop of horse hooves.
“Max…” I began uneasily, but it was too late. He turned to me, beaming with pride, offering me a hand up into the open carriage that had drawn up at the curb, pulled by a pair of pure-white mares. How could I possibly tell him no, when he was so proud of the date he’d planned?
So, instead of fighting him on this, I ignored my growing unease, put my hand in his, and stepped up into the carriage.
I would admit, it was nice snuggling up with Max under a blanket to hold back the evening chill. The carriage took us down the street, people in their cars gawking and snapping pictures on the way by, then we made a slow route through the park.
In the distance, I could hear strains of music. “Where is that coming from?” I asked, sitting up to squint in the dying light. Max only offered me a Cheshire grin. He was thoroughly enjoying this.
The music swelled as we got closer, and finally, the carriage pulled up in front of a full symphony set up at the park’s amphitheater. A decent audience had gathered for the concert, but soon enough, heads began to turn, people nudging their neighbors, whispering behind hands creating a soft shushing sound. Before we’d even made our way to our seats, their attention on me made my skin crawl and itch, goosebumps rising. I could barely pay attention to the music.
By the time the concert was over and we’d made our way back to our awaiting carriage, I was queasy and clammy. I was just glad to get the hell out of there. It was still early, though, and the date wasn’t over yet.
“I thought we would wrap things up with dinner,” Max murmured in my ear, nuzzling into my neck. “Maybe some dessert?”
“Hmm? Sure,” I agreed, though I wasn’t sure I could eat a bite.
Max leaned back and looked at me, a crease forming between his perfectly shaped brows, obviously having heard something in my voice, but our carriage was just pulling up in front of the hotel. We were interrupted by the doorman who rushed over to open the carriage door. He had gray hair tucked under his hat, and he moved with a stiffness that spoke of his aching joints, but when he spoke with such enthusiasm, his eyes lighting up, he seemed to shed years from his age. “Good evening, Mr. Shepherd! I trust you had a wonderful time?”
“Yes, Gerry, thank you for the suggestions. It was perfect,” Max said, patting the man gently on the shoulder.
I accepted Max’s hand again to step down from the carriage, and then with a hand on my lower back, Max ushered me through the front door currently held open by the doorman. As soon as we were crossing the lobby, Max leaned in and whispered, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why?” I lied smoothly.
Max gave me a skeptical look but said nothing else until we’d made our way through to the restaurant and were seated. Our table was smack dab in the middle of the dining room, perfect for making me feel like I was under a microscope. I really would’ve preferred something a little more private. Was it always like this for celebrities? Max sat in the chair beside me instead of across the table. I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
I picked up the menu and froze. The prices were… steep. My throat seemed to close, making it hard to breathe.
The server appeared at my elbow, a man in his twenties with hair curling around his ears. “Bonsoir, gentlemen. My name is Benedict, and I will be your server this evening. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“J-just water for me,” I managed to choke out.
“Nonsense, this is a special night,” Max said. “We’ll get a bottle of your Chateau d'Yquem.” I didn’t know much about wine, but it sounded expensive.
Everyone was staring, I was sure of it. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck and into my brand-new overpriced suit that felt like water against my skin. I was probably ruining the fabric right now with my massive pit stains. I tried to swallow, but the sides of my throat stuck together like glue. I couldn’t manage to gather even a drop of spit. Was it just me or was the room getting smaller?
Max had been talking, but I hadn’t been paying attention. “What do you think of Arlox?”
He seemed to be waiting for me to reply. “What?” I mumbled, drowning right here in my seat.
“You know, as a Hollywood couple name. It’s cute, right?” He seemed oblivious to the pressure building inside my head. I closed my eyes in a long blink, trying to maintain control. “That’s how you know your fans approve of a relationship. Or I suppose the alternative is Marlo, and that’s also—”
“Stop!” I hissed sharply, unable to keep it in any longer. I gripped both sides of my chair hard, until my knuckled popped.
The server chose that exact moment to appear with the bottle of wine, and he froze, his eyes darting back and forth between us, picking up on the tension.
Max frowned, obviously confused and scrambling to make sense of what he’d missed. “Is it the wine? Would you prefer red?”
“No, just…” I glanced at the server, and Max caught the reason for my hesitance.
