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I remember Fergus, a tall Irish man with a penchant for being friendly and a smooth talker. I always liked him. He also taught me a few tricks when I started bartending.
I hesitate for a few seconds. “Does he know about Mila?”
Zayn pauses and watches me with a steadiness that makes me want to retract my question. Sometimes, I swear there is something else that peeks at me from behind those glacier eyes, something that both frightens me and makes me want to toe the line when it comes to this man.
Finally, after a few moments of silence, he deigns to speak. “My friends know about Mila. I’m not ashamed of her. Or you.”
I don’t know why he feels the need to add ‘or you’ to the statement, and I don’t understand the warmth spreading throughout my chest on hearing it.
The ride to the restaurant isn’t long, but I can’t help myself from studying Zayn’s profile, the strength that he wears with such ease, a certain grace to him which holds a layer of lethal menace that reveals itself when the situation asks for it.
His eyes look ahead but I know he is aware of my scrutiny and he revels in it.
Of course he does.
Narcissistic bastard.
His cheekbones are sharp, and the sunbeam chooses a particular spot to highlight on him, making the dark tones of his hair almost shimmer.
He is agonizingly attractive, and I hate myself for wanting him. I know he’s changed. Obviously, he has. The signs are obvious.
And I know he isn’t a liar, meaning that he didn’t have a woman in his bed for six months. But even while he is trying to get me to trust him, the sober part of my mind, the one that was abused by a plethora of peop
le five years ago, refuses.
I know what it is like to be tossed aside like trash, only to be picked up by someone you trust and then broken deliberately again and again until there is nothing left of you.
My arms cross over my chest, feeling grim.
I can’t trust myself with anyone.
“We’re here.”
Zayn’s voice startles me out of my thoughts, and I stare at the restaurant.
It can hardly be called a restaurant, though.
A sprawling garden with umbrellas protecting each table from the harsh summer sunlight. Tables are set haphazardly on the large expanse, an order to them that is beyond me. At the far end of the garden, there is a large building from where sharply dressed servers donning pleasant looks on their faces exited, carrying dish after dish.
It is ten in the morning and the place isn’t overflowing with customers at the moment, giving me enough time to look around and observe this place.
I always knew that Fergus was running restaurants but I never had the chance to visit one of them. From the looks of this place, he is doing pretty well for himself. I can’t help but be happy for him.
The man is a genius in the kitchen.
We are guided to a table near another section of the garden with a large play area. I never saw a play area in a restaurant so fancy, but a quick look reveals a ball pit, a slide, jungle gyms with safety nets, swings, and equipment that looks both safe and fun for children.
Mila’s eyes are gleaming with excitement, and she hops impatiently on one foot and then the other. Admiring her self-restraint with a chuckle, I nod to her and she flies into the play area, me and Zayn already having ceased to exist in her mind.
As I look over the menu, the server puts a glass of juice in front of me, murmuring, “On the house.”
I glance at Zayn, who looks unperturbed. “How’re classes?”
Surprised for a second, I realize the question is aimed at the young man who is serving us.
The man—no, boy—grins shyly. “Got an A in my finance analytics class. My professor says he’ll let me write my thesis under him.”
Zayn looks pleased. “Let me know if you need help with your management class. I know you’re having problems. I’ll arrange something.”
