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Marc looked horrified. “Fuck. Did you leave?”
“I did. I was sure I’d have to go work for my dad and stare at spreadsheets all day, but I couldn’t excuse his shit anymore. I don’t know why I ever tried to.”
“Because you were young and you wanted him to be the man you’d hoped he was?”
That wasn’t enough of an excuse. “I was an idiot.”
“I can sympathize with that. But now you have this shop, so you succeeded anyway.”
Yes. He had. “I took a job washing dishes in a restaurant at first, but I kept going to every tailor shop I could find and asking for work. Finally, I went into the right place, the one where I met Clarice. She hired me on the spot, and she’s taken care of me ever since, working for me once I redid the shop to make it my own.”
“Wow.”
At least Marc looked impressed. “So now you know why that rule matters to me.”
“I do, but you’ve been very clear with me that nothing I do or don’t do with you affects my job. I’ve never felt forced into anything. You get that, right?”
At some level he did, but he still worried. “I still have the power to fire you, and that night when you—”
“I knew better. I don’t know why I said that.”
He should never have tried to make a game out of Marc paying him with sex. “I brought it up. That was… I don’t know.”
“Neither of us was thinking very clearly that night.”
“No, we weren’t.”
“So are you still offering this not-exactly-a-date?”
Darius considered that for a moment. At least if it was a disaster, he could enjoy blaming Clarice. “Yes.”
“Then I would very much like to go.”
***
Darius watched Marc emerge from a car, speak to the driver, and shut the door. It was a good thing he had a few moments before Marc realized he was there, otherwise he might have just stared at him, unable to speak.
Marc wore a form-fitting red sweater that had fucking sequins around the neck. It had the suggestion of being a tacky Christmas sweater without actually being one, and his black leather pants hugged his arse almost as nicely as they would have if Darius had made them.
Marc’s grin as he approached the restaurant told Darius that he knew exactly what effect his outfit was having. Bastard.
Once they were seated, the server gave them menus and set the wine list in the center of the table.
“Should we order a bottle?” Marc asked.
Darius needed as much alcohol as he could handle. He didn’t want to end up stumbling into the theater, but he needed to relax, or he was going to fuck this up. He hadn’t been on a real date in over ten years.
You told Marc this wasn’t a date.
I say a lot of shit to Marc that isn’t true.
Yes, you do.
Did his conscience really have to fuck with him right then? He hated this jittery, unsure feeling. He could feel sweat on the back of his neck. Motherfucking fuck, he was falling apart.
“Wine?” Marc was looking at him strangely.
Oh, right, he’d asked Darius about ordering a bottle. “That’s good, but I’m shit at choosing, so pick something you like.”
“And here I thought anyone who made such fine clothes was required to be a connoisseur.”
“Ha! Thorne chooses the wine we offer in the shop.”
“I bet he loves doing that,” Marc said as he picked up the wine list.
“It lets him control something, so of course he does.”
They both snickered over that.
When the server returned, Darius realized he’d been staring at Marc the whole time and never once considered what he was going to order.
“Have you made any decisions?” she asked.
“We’d like a bottle of the Ruston cabernet and an order of calamari.”
“Certainly, sir. Have you decided on your entrees?”
Marc glanced at Darius, the smirk on his face saying he knew Darius’s mind hadn’t been on food.
“I need more time,” Darius said.
“Of course. I’ll bring your wine right out.”
“Have you even looked at the menu?” Marc asked after she walked away.
“If you wanted me to be able to concentrate, you shouldn’t have worn…that.” He pointed at Marc’s sweater. Since when did he have a sweater fetish?
“So you like my outfit?” Marc ran his hands over his chest, making Darius wonder just how soft the fabric was and how good it would feel to peel it off him.
“You knew I would.” Though he couldn’t explain why. It was just a sweater.
Nothing on Marc is just a sweater.
Marc tapped his menu. “Choose something. We do have a show to get to.”
“What do you recommend?”
“The eggplant parmesan is incredible, but really everything I’ve had here is fantastic. The chicken piccata is Thorne’s favorite.”
Darius forced himself to keep his eyes on the menu until the server returned with their calamari and wine. She opened the bottle and poured a sample for Marc.
