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Heat jumps from his gaze to my skin.
“I can think of other ways,” he drawls darkly, “that you can make it up to me.”
I shiver, feeling so exposed under his gaze.
“Well… I guess we should get going,” I say. “Do we have a reservation at a certain time?”
“Don’t need a reservation when you own the restaurant.”
“Oh! Well… Alright then. Oh, crap!”
“What?” Elio says, pulling me against his chest and scanning the room with urgent eyes.
“No, no, nothing serious,” I say, pulling away. “I just noticed the lipstick kiss mark I left on your face!” I lick my thumb then reach up to smudge it away, but Elio catches my wrist in an iron grip.
“Don’t.”
“You want to go out to a nice dinner with my lipstick on your cheek?” I say with a disbelieving laugh.
Elio doesn’t laugh. He’s utterly serious when he simply says, “Yes,” and then pulls me out the door into the night.
Chapter 32
Elio
“This is your restaurant?!” Deirdre cries as we enter the luxurious dining room of Le Moineau. “Doesn’t it have a Michelin star?”
“Two, actually,” I tell her as the maître d’ gives us a deferential greeting and leads us through the opulent space. I keep Deirdre close, my hand on her lower back as we walk. Her dark red shoes click along the highly polished wood of the floors as we approach my usual table.
It’s secluded from the rest of the restaurant, the table tucked into an intimate corner that’s further separated from the other people dining by a wrought iron trellis with plants curling along its shape. Not that there are any other patrons here. I’ve closed out the entire place for us tonight.
The maître d’ pulls out Deirdre’s chair for her, but one look from me has him moving swiftly away. I replace him behind her, pushing her chair in for her as she sits. She turns around to thank the maître d’, then blushes fiercely when she sees it’s me.
“Thanks,” she whispers. “Where is everyone?” She cranes her neck to see past the wrought iron trellis with its dark, curling leaves.
“Eating in somebody else’s restaurant tonight,” I say with a shrug as I sit across from her. I don’t really give a fuck where the rest of Toronto’s idiotic lovebirds have ended up tonight. I only care about the Songbird sitting on the other side of the table.
The lighting in here is dim and soft. It makes Deirdre’s skin glow and her eyes look huge and dark. She looks like a fucking painting sitting there with those eyes and that hair and that dress. A work of fucking art that should be hung up on a wall somewhere and studied.
Only by me, of course.
She casts her eyes down at the menu then looks startled.
“Oh, wow. They don’t even put prices on the menu here,” she remarks, picking up the menu like she’s afraid she’ll break it or get it dirty.
“The kind of people who eat here aren’t concerned by prices or budgets,” I tell her. “You’re one of those people now.”
She puts down the menu and sighs.
“It’s hard to get used to. Not long ago I was in such a massive amount of debt. Now I’m someone who doesn’t have to worry about prices?”
“That’s what happens when you marry the right man.”
I fully expect her to scowl at that remark, but instead she laughs. Just a little one.
Still tears my heart out all the same.
“Noted,” she says, her tone teasing. “You’re going to have to advise me on what to order, you know. I’ve never been somewhere like this.”
