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The lump in my throat was thick and almost painful. I hadn’t been back here since the day I had buried Dad.
If I didn’t need to let everything I was feeling out, I probably wouldn’t have been there today, either.
As I approached the white, marble gravestones that marked their graves, I slowed down. It took everything I had not to burst into tears while I was still several feet away from them.
I managed to keep it in until I’d sat down. I arranged the small bunch of carnations in my dad’s vase and then gave my mom the six red roses. The water inside the bottle fit both vases perfectly, and only then did I sit back in front of my mom’s grave.
Glancing to the other headstone, I said, “Cover your ears, Dad.” And then, I smiled.
The smile didn’t linger long.
I ran my gaze over the headstone. Melinda Lloyd, 07-29-1963 – 09-07-1998. Beloved mother, wife, and friend. Always loved. I swallowed hard and rubbed my hand softly over the grass that covered the ground in front of me.
Like a tidal wave, everything came rushing out. All my inner thoughts from the past few days. My frustrations and my delights. My apologies and my promises. It left me quietly, not stopping until my eyes had dried and my throat was raw from the emotion I felt.
Yet, I was lighter. I could breathe again. There was no longer the crushing weight of confusion pressing down on my chest.
Sure, I didn’t know what would happen now. I didn’t know if I was making the right choice or if I was about to do the stupidest thing of my life.
Fact was, I had to go to dinner with Damien Fox.
I had too many questions not to. My father had always insisted that one day my curious nature would get me in trouble and I should have been a reporter, but maybe this was worth the risk.
Why did he want my bar?
Why was he so insistent he’d get me into bed?
And why had my father hated him?
***
Me: I’m rethinking your offer of dinner.
Damien’s reply was almost instantaneous. I knew it would be. I’d waited until the middle of the afternoon before texting him, and something told me he’d been waiting for my message.
He knew it would come, after all.
Cue eye roll.
I hit CTRL-S on the document I was working on and unlocked my phone by tapping in the code.
Damien: You are, are you?
I smirked and picked up the phone to reply.
Me: Are you surprised?
Damien: Not at all. It was only a matter of time.
Me: I haven’t agreed to anything yet, you know.
Damien: But you will. There’s no other reason for this conversation.
Me: Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of arrogant?
Damien: Some people think it’s hot.
Me: Those people are idiots.
Damien: True.
Damien: Shall I pick you up at 7?
Fucking hell—was that…a question mark?
Me: Did you just…ASK?
Damien: Yes. Don’t expect me to do it again. It was horrible.
Me: But I forgot the question.
Damien: Scroll up your phone, sweetheart. It’s right there.
Me: I would, but I think making you ask again would be more fun.
Damien: *picture attachment*
Damien: There.
I tapped the attachment to see it better and burst out laughing. He’d sent me a screenshot of the message where he’d asked me if he should pick me up. I didn’t know if that was ridiculous and petulant or leaning toward freaking smart. I wanted him to ask again just to be a pain in the ass, and he totally found a loophole so he didn’t have to ask again.
Because technically, he didn’t.
I loathed to call him smart. So, I didn’t.
Me: LOL.
Me: No. Text me a time and place and I’ll see you there.
Damien: You made me ask again just to say that, didn’t you?
Me: Absolutely. Time and place, Mr. Fox. I don’t have all day.
Five minutes later, I got my response.
Damien: 7:30 at Figaro’s. I’ll be in the corner booth waiting for you. Don’t be late.
Me: Bring your manners, and I’ll be on time.
Six
Dahlia
At seven forty-five, I got out of the cab outside Figaro’s after paying and tipping the driver. My black and white lace dress had ridden up my thighs as I’d exited the car, so I pulled it down before approaching the doors to the restaurant.
I’d spent way too long getting dressed for this damn dinner. It wasn’t a date, but business-smart wasn’t classy enough for Figaro’s. I could count on one hand the amount of times I’d eaten here, and there was no chance in hell this was where two people went for a business dinner.
Then again, I’d never said it wasn’t a date, so Damien was perfectly within his rights to assume it was, even though I could almost guarantee that wasn’t it at all. He probably just wanted me to think he thought it was a date, so I had to tread carefully. Unless the subject came up specifically, I had to play the line between professional and personal.
