But when I pressed for more information about him, she’d clamped her mouth shut. “Nondisclosure agreement?” I’d asked.
Since I’d insisted on riding up front instead of sitting in the back seat in a silly maid’s getup, she’d looked over at me. “Loyalty. He deserves it.”
Her emphatic defense of him surprised me even more.
No matter what, I don’t want to believe there’s more to the man than general assholeishness.
Blackwell hands me into the car, and I slide across seat.
I must be Cinderella.
And that makes me wonder…
How much time do I have before my second fall from grace? And with the way I’m attracted to Blackwell, will this time be even more devastating?
Chapter Eight
Seraphina
I can only hope that I am able to get back on my feet before he pulls the rug out from beneath me again.
Houston’s skyline blurs as we pass. Vionna is competent but not too aggressive, and she pulls up in front of the valet stand at the Bluewater Bistro.
Lila has talked about this place for at least two years.
Getting a reservation is next to impossible, and the bar area is hopping. She swears it is the best place to meet the who’s who of Houston. Plenty of times, she’s dropped names of the people she’s seen here. A football player, the most beloved baseball player in the Bayou City’s history, people in the mayor’s and DA’s offices, the most powerful lawyer in the state who recently divorced for a third time and is reportedly on the prowl for a trophy wife. Lila generously said she would volunteer as tribute.
We’re greeted by the owner herself and shown to a private room. I wonder if Lila knows it exists.
When a waiter hurries over to pull back my chair, Blackwell waves him off and takes his place.
As I sit, the dress clings to my waist and hips, tailored like as if it was custom made for me.
Wearing this silkiness makes me feel like I belong here. Suddenly I feel as if I’m someone I haven’t been in a long, long time.
As the waiter flicks open a napkin and places it in my lap, Blackwell sits across from me, all polished power in his tailored suit.
We’re handed high-end Bonds tablets that display the menu.
“May I start you with something to drink, Mr. Blackwell? Or would you like to look at the wine list?” He indicates the fancy leather folder that’s perched near the edge of the table.
Blackwell looks at me “How about a bottle of red?”
Absolutely not. “I won’t be drinking.” Wine on an empty stomach? With Blackwell across from me in a private room? I’m not that far gone.
“I’ll have a glass of my regular.”
“Very well, sir. And for you, ma’am?”
“Iced tea.” Although any caffeine right now is probably a bad call if I hope to sleep tonight. And since I’m already running on fumes I need the rest. “Sweetened, please.”
A second server delivers a basket filled with several different types of warm rolls. On a plate are pats of butter that have the restaurant’s logo stamped in them.
“How about an appetizer to go with that?” He recommends the seafood fondue.
I glance at the menu, and my mouth begins to water. There’s an image of the dish, and it is described as a creamy and savory mix of cheeses, Gulf shrimp, blue crab, and spinach.
How long has it been since I’ve had food that looks so tempting? “Sounds amazing.”
