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“Good luck with that,” she scoffed. Even on a Thursday night, Soho would be packed.
Of course, he found a spot not two doors down from the restaurant he insisted on eating at. Typical.
He jumped out, rounded the car and opened the door for her. “Let’s go,” he said. “I’m starving.”
With a sigh, she climbed out of the car. Honestly, there wasn’t a whole lot she could do other than comply. Her usual tactics for getting people to keep their distance didn’t seem to work with Harvard. She’d yet to figure out what did.
As they walked to the restaurant, he took her hand.
Rachel tried to tug free of his hold, but it was useless. “There’s no one around,” she told him. “We don’t have to pretend we’re in a relationship.”
“Rachel,” he drawled, “I’ve told you a good spy never breaks cover.”
It was completely maddening that he had an answer for everything.
The tapas bar had barely any frontage and a sign that needed a good repaint. It wasn’t reassuring.
“There’s more space in back,” Harvard said as though that would ease her mind.
He placed a hand on the small of her back and led her through the open door. The décor was “explosion of color”, with a variety of bright tablecloths on different-sized and -shaped tables, small vases of flowers sitting on each one, and mix ’n’ match paintings depicting all things Spanish crowding the walls. The chairs, floor, and table legs were all the same dark wood. Which just made Rachel think how easy it would be to hide stains.
She shuddered. If she touched anything sticky, she was going straight home. “Do you deliberately hunt down all the places in London that decorate by throwing everything they have at the room?”
“No, but now that I think about it, maybe I should.”
A cheery blonde waitress with a Polish accent led them to a table right at the back of the room, where the space widened out to three times the size of the frontage. Their table had a bright blue cloth, yellow flowers and, thankfully, no sticky residue anywhere.
“How about we do one of everything?” Harvard asked her as the waitress offered them the laminated menus.
If it meant she didn’t have to touch those, she’d agree to anything. “That’s fine with me. And wine. Dear Gucci, I need wine. A bottle. Sealed.” She didn’t trust anything that came in a glass. Who knows what they were serving and calling a decent vintage. Actually…
She glanced at the drinks menu, which sat propped up against the flowers. It was worse than she thought. The wine only came in red or white.
“Forget the wine,” she said. “I’ll take a bottle of beer. Something light. And please open it at the table.” To her credit, the waitress didn’t so much as blink an eye at Rachel’s instructions.
After the waitress disappeared, Rachel watched Harvard shrug out of his jacket and hang it over the back of the chair beside him. With a sigh, Rachel placed her handbag on the seat next to her and did the same with her jacket.
“Just once,” she said, “could we eat somewhere that’s regularly inspected by the health department?”
He threw back his head, laughing deep and long. Rachel glanced at some of the nearby diners, who were smiling at him. Noticing one or two of the women had speculation in their eyes, she glared at them. It had nothing to do with her pretending to be his fiancée; it was just plain rude to size up another woman’s dinner date.
Of course, Harvard caught her actions. “Getting a bit possessive?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I be possessive? Because we had sex?” She made a little scoffing sound. “I don’t know you well enough to want to keep you.”
“You could. Know me, that is.” He spread his arms wide, making his shirt tighten at his shoulders. “I’m an open book. Ask me anything. I dare you.”
She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “I’d have to be interested to ask.”
He leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table, his ey
es pinning hers. “Aren’t you even a little bit curious?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He was bloody well amused again. “Fine. Tell me about being a spy—if that’s what you really did. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone. And make me believe it.”
