“I, erm.” Nigel looked down at his tea then away again quickly. His gaze shot across to Bryony’s fine self, then bounced to the next table over, before finally coming to rest with great determination on her cocktail glass. “Forgive me, MissBraithwait. It was a long day. At the shop, I mean. I fear I’m a bit distracted this evening.”
“A bit?” She lifted her glass to her lips, drawing his eyes that same direction. “Do tell, Mr. Grimm. Thrill me with stories of your flower-selling exploits.”
Nigel winced. It wasn’t as though he could describe the close brush with death both he and Luna had survived. Nor would it be appropriate to mention how he’d spent such a large portion of his day with her roommate. While said roommate was wearing nothing more than her underwear.
“We, erm, had a special. On carnations.”
“I can hardly contain myself.” Bryony sighed, looked around, caught a waiter’s eye, and held up her empty glass, signaling her need. Then she looked at Nigel again, stirring ice with the straw in a manner that was distinctlyun-sensual. Just noisy. Finally, inclining her head and lowering her voice she said, “Do you want to get out of here?”
Gods, yes,Nigel thought.
Then:Wait, no. Does she mean what I think she means?
“Erm.” He cleared his throat and forced himself not to pull at his tie, though it felt awfully constricting just now. “We’ve not yet eaten, Miss Braithwait.”
“Meh.” She shrugged.
“Your lobster?”
“Listen,” she said, “if you don’t take me up on it soon, I’m going to lose my appetite altogether.” She shivered, glancing around the restaurant. “This place gives me the creeps anyway.”
“It does?”
“Yeah. I keep seeing blokes I know from work. See that fellow over there?” She pointed out apainfullyaristocratic fellow, who sat across from hispainfullyaristocratic wife. He stared over said wife’s shoulder, his gaze fixed on Bryony with an expression of absolute terror. “He’s afraid I’m going to wiggle over there andsay hi and ask after his lumbago.” Bryony snorted. “As if I give a hoot about him or his lumbago!” She shook her magenta curls dismissively. “He’s starting to regret that tenner he slipped me the other night, and I can’t have that. Wouldn’t want him not to show up tomorrow night, you know? And look at that fellow over there.”
This time, she indicated a member of the wait staff, who stood near the kitchen entrance very upright, very alert, flicking nervous glances toward their table. “Saw him just last night, actually. He can’t take his eyes off me, and that’s all right when I’m at work, but here?” She shivered again, pale shoulders rounding. “I don’t like it so much.”
Their waiter returned, setting down a fresh pink cocktail. Bryony picked it up and, foregoing the straw, downed the whole thing like a shot then spat ice back into the glass. Following this, she looked at Nigel across the table and said, “So what do you say? Want to take me somewhere I can get out of these tight duds and breathe a little?”
Nigel opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then he leaned rather less sensuously across the table himself. “Miss Braithwait,” he said, lowering his voice to what he hoped was a respectful tone, “I fear you, erm, may be under some misconception. About the nature of my, erm, intentions.”
“Oh, don’t it talk posh, though.” Bryony’s eyes narrowed, her tone less effusive than usual.
“I mean for us to enjoy an evening of each other’s company,” Nigel persisted. “That is, conversation. A meal. A few laughs, maybe. And, erm, that is all.”
She raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow. “That’s all, hmmm?”
He nodded.
“And what, Mr. Grimm, did you thinkIhad in mind, exactly?” She propped all of her fine self forward and stuck out her lipsin a prodigious pout. “Spell it out for me slowly so’s I can follow you. No big words, you get me?”
Nigel gaped. For the moment, his mind seemed to have drawn a complete blank.
He was spared by the arrival of Bryony’s dessert. He sat back with a little sigh of relief while she turned her attention to layers of cream and ganache and confectionary doodads, fighting the powerful urge to whip out his handkerchief and mop his brow. That, however, could only make him look more of a fool than he already was. Gods, but he wished he’d never left The Arcane Bouquet tonight! He should have resisted Luna’s insistence, should have called off this ill-conceived date. Should have ordered a proper meal for the two of them from Simmer Down Deli, made Luna prop her feet by the stove, while he finished the clean-up. Then he should have brewed her a pot of tea. They might have discussed the wild events of the day. Or not. They might have simply sat for a while in one another’s company. Until something inevitably reminded Luna of some ridiculous story from her childhood, and she’d be off on a recounting, sweeping him along with her, making him laugh until he couldn’t hide it anymore, and—
“Done,” Bryony said, setting down her fork. Then she pressed her palms into the table, stood, and declared, “I don’t feel like lobster.”
Nigel blinked up at her. “You don’t?”
“No. I feel like beer. And dancing. And you’re going to take me out and treat me to both. Maybe something can still be made of this evening once you’ve got a pint or two down your gullet.”
“Oh, Miss Braithwait, I don’t—”
“If you tell me you don’t drink, Mr. Grimm, I’m going to whip the tablecloth off this here table andstrangleyou with it.” She softened her words with a pouty grin, just on this sideof dangerous, and planted her hand on an angled hip. “You get me?”
Nigel nodded, fishing for his wallet. “I’ll just, erm, settle up then.”
“You do that. I’ll be waiting in thefoy-yay.”
