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He chuckles. “What’s wrong with a sunroof?”
“I don’t mean in a car,” I say. “I mean his hairstyle.”
Al laughs again.
Al.
An Al wouldn’t have demolished me in bed. I shake my head. “You’re definitely not an Al.”
“Fine,” he replies. “You’re the one obsessed with me having a name. You choose one.”
“That’s not how it works,” I say.
“Things work the way you want them to work,” he replies. “Reality bends.”
“Sure,” I agree. “When you’re a billionaire, I guess that’s true.”
“That’s the second time you’ve called me a billionaire.”
“Sorry,” I reply. Not sorry. “This is all new to me.”
I have thousands of pounds owed in student debt, a shitty flat I can’t really afford, and a job that pays peanuts. Having dinner with a billionaire is quite an extraordinary thing.
“My name is Alistair Gregory,” he says. “But only my mother calls me that.”
“When you’re in trouble?” I ask.
“Yes,” he laughs. “And I’m always in trouble.”
I don’t believe that for a second. “You mean you are trouble. There’s a distinct difference.”
“I guess so.”
Alistair the Great. It certainly suits him more than Uncle Al.
“I can’t call you Alistair Gregory,” I say. “It feels a little formal given our … relations. And I certainly can’t call you Al, or there will be no further relations.”
He serves me cold-smoked salmon, sour cream, and caviar. He grinds red peppercorns over the delicate pink fish while I take a sip of champagne. It’s so dry it practically vanishes in my mouth.
“I’ll call you Alistair, then,” I continue tentatively. “If you’re happy with that.”
“Say it again.”
“Alistair.” The tip of my tongue teases my palate when I say his name.
“Hmm,” he grunts, locking eyes with me. “I like the way it sounds in your mouth.”
I get a tingling all the way down my spine. So do I, Alistair. So do I.
The food is delicious. The portions are modest, and we leave the plates empty. Marinated roast peppers and aubergine, giant caper berries, ostrich carpaccio with a fresh, bright olive oil that tastes like green grass. A rocket and vine tomato salad with shavings of a hard Italian cheese. A small spinach and feta quiche with a buttery crust, topped with balsamic caramelized onions. At first glance, the food was beautifully plated but not extraordinary, but the ingredients were so fresh that every bite tasted incredible. I relished it.
“So good!” I exclaim, using my last piece of bread to swipe up the puddle of vinaigrette on my plate. I don’t bother to hide my appreciation.
“I enjoyed it,” Alistair agrees. “But I enjoyed watching you eat it more.”
“I love food,” I admit.
“I can tell,” he replies.
