We enter the restaurant and approach the hostess. As we wait in line, I take in the room. Neon lives up to its name. Every cornice is fitted with a snug pink neon light that runs around the whole restaurant. At points, it dips low on the wall and bends into the shape of words or a picture before snaking back up to the top. Even the tables are glowing with the fluorescent light. I watch people’s faces light up against the soft hum of pastels and a surge of excitement swoops in my stomach. I’ve forgotten how fun it could be to dress up and go somewhere really unique.
“Hi, the reservation is under Mary,” David says.
“Oh, my name is Mia, but don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.” I wink. Not ideal that he forgot my name, but hey, maybe he’s nervous.
“Mary is my mom’s name. She made the booking.” He smiles. “Don’t worry, I remembered your name.”
Oh God.
Okay, so his mom helped him out with his clothes and his reservation. He’s obviously very close with his mom.
The hostess walks us over to our table as I scan the room for all available emergency exits in case this date goes south fast. David pulls me by the hand. It’s a little presumptuous, but I don’t mind the feel of his large palm wrapped around mine. It feels good for someone to be openly affectionate, even if it feels a little forced.
“Your server will be with you shortly.” She gestures to the table and returns to the hostess station.
I take a seat and look at the couple to our left.
Holy. Shit.
It’s Dr. Charlotte-Freaking-Buckingham.
Dr. Charlotte Buckingham is a renowned psychologist and the only heir to the Buckingham fortune. The family made their money from railways and steelworks, leading them to become one of the wealthiest families in North America. She was, by all accounts, an American princess.
I openly stare at her, and she gives me a small wave. I raise my hand in response, mouth gaping. I’m sitting maybe two feet away from her.TheCharlotte Buckingham. First woman in her family to study an actual profession with the intent of doing paid work. It was uncouth, unseemly and, apparently, very nearly saw her struck out of the will for being so modern. But Charlotte, from what I read, insisted on building her own legacy. So she studied and started her practice under a pseudonym, determined to make a name for herself without the weight of her family name. Once Vanity Fair did an exposé, the cat was out of the bag, and she began practicing under her given name. Gosh, she’s amazing. If ever I were to fan-girl, it would be over this woman. She’s a legend already, determined to build a practice that approaches modern concepts, not a one-size fits all mentality.
I turn to her date and almost choke.
Charlotte.
Lottie…is short for Charlotte. And that’s who Alfie took the phone call from on Saturday. I had presumed he was seeing someone, which, honestly, was a little crushing considering my one-sided fantasy daydreams of him certainly don’t include a third person. He’s never given me any indication that he’s found me remotely attractive, I mean aside from that quick glanceat my thighs in my apartment, but why would he? I’m just a student who happens to work for him and my thighs were out there, of course he was going to look.
And now, given that he’s on a date with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, it seems obvious he’s seeing someone as accomplished as her.
Her long blonde hair is highlighted with golden tones and swept over one shoulder. Her black off the shoulder dress fits her perfectly, and I watch as she takes a sip of her wine before glancing at Alfie.
“Dr. Adams,” I mutter in acknowledgment.
Could this get anymore embarrassing?
“Miss Sinclair.”
I watch as Dr. Buckingham frowns and glares at Alfie.
Oh God, she’s going to hate me because of how weird Alfie is being. I know that look. I know what she’s going to assume.
Alfie looks annoyed. Like I’ve ruined his date with the illustrious doctor, even though I was the one that said I was going out on a date tonight, not him. How does this even happen? How did we end up at the same restaurant, let alone next to each other where the tables are jam-packed? We are essentially on a double date.
Date.
Shit, for a minute I forgot I was on one.
I look to David, who is eyeing me curiously.
“Sorry, what?” I blurt out.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh, okay.”
