“You knew I’d change my mind, didn’t you?”
“Not at all,” he says, stifling a smile, opening the door.
Arrogant arse. But I like it and I really shouldn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
pigeon
REY
As much as Mark looked out of place at the market today, it’s got nothing on how I feel sitting at the kitchen of The Connoisseur in Mayfair. We’re not in the restaurant like normal patrons, of course. True to his promise that we wouldn’t be seen together, we entered through a hidden door around the back, and now we’re in a dimly lit corner of the kitchen at a private table getting waited on by everyone. And they seem genuinely happy about it, compared to the sulky servers at my regular pub near home.
Mark appears quite familiar with secret entrances and dodging attention. It seems sad not to be free to just do what you want.
“Bonsoir,” Mark says to a blond woman who has the air of a person in charge. “Rey, this is Nelly. A two-Michelin-starred chef and a friend for many years.”
Until today, I wouldn’t have pictured Mark having any friends at all. I mean, I know he was friends with Damian and he has other billionaire friends (according to Mum and the other gossip ladies that I try very hard not to listen to). But until now I assumed all he does is scowl at people.
Now that I know he talks, chuckles, and even makes silly comments … I want to be one of them.
“Bonsoir,” she says, nodding to me with a smile. “Mark and I studied business together before I became a chef. He was much better than me at that, and I wouldn’t be here without his sound advice,” she says in her thick French accent, gesturing to the brightly lit kitchen. “There’ll always be a table for him here.”
“Amazing,” I say. “I’m excited to try your food. I’ve never been to a Michelin star restaurant before.”
Nelly’s face lights up.“Oh, really? You’ll have to get our degustation menu, no?” She turns to Mark.
They switch to having a conversation in French that I don’t understand, but I’m guessing it has to do with food, and she pats his shoulder before she’s off, waving goodbye to me. That pat had zero sexual tension in it, no lingering touch, and no longing stare following it, and I’m confused by how relieved I am. Why the hell should I care?
Sitting here, so close to him, watching him in the dim light of our corner, I’m hit by the want for him to be Robin. The thought comes out of the blue, and I laugh out loud. Mark knits his brow in a questioning look.
“What are you laughing at?” he asks, unfolding his napkin onto his lap.
I just shake my head. It was so foolish; there’s no way I can tell him.
“You know the guy I was meeting today,” I say instead, and Mark nods. “I’ve not seen him properly.”
He scoffs. “A blind date?”
“Not really, I met him at a costume party and we’ve been texting and talking on the phone. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m sharing this. I just started thinking about him, and my mouth runs away.” I sit back and wave a hand as if I could fan away the words I’ve just spoken.
“Go ahead, tell me more. Maybe I can help.”
“How?”
“I’m a man. I think it qualifies.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Anything I say stays here? I don’t want it used against me in the office.”
He holds up his hands. “Your secrets will die with me.”
Giving myself a moment to think, I take a sip of my incredible red wine and let it flow around in my mouth before I swallow. How could he help?
“What was he dressed as?” he asks before I can think of something clever to utilise his man-status for.
“Robin Hood.”
Mark chuckles. “In leggings?”
