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“Tell me something, Marie.”
“If you ask maybe I will.”
“If money and time were no object, where would you most like to go in the world?”
“Oh, I love this kind of question. It always fits my budget.” She put her champagne down and clasped her hands under her chin. “Sydney. No, London. No, Paris. No, all three.”
“Really?” His eyes were amused. “Not some tropical resort?”
“No, no.” She waved the idea away. “If I’m spending imaginary time and money, I want to see the world, not lie on a beach. Though it’s not like I’d fight to leave a tropical resort if I landed there.”
“Gotcha.”
“What about you?”
“Sydney, London and Paris sound perfect.”
“So—” Marie lifted her shoulder in a nonchalant shrug “—when do we leave?”
Quinn chuckled and lifted his glass for another clink. “Next month. This one is busy for me.”
“July.” She clinked and drank rapturously, loving the fizz of bubbles on her tongue and the clear, smooth taste.
“You know where else I want to go? To Gladiolas. Darcy promised us a meal. I say we take her up on it.”
“Oh, yes, the food there is wonderful.” Marie patted her stomach rapturously. “Her menu ideas and titles are so creative and funny. People really enjoy them. Though if her ex-employee Raoul has his way, she won’t be so original anymore.”
“What’s that about?”
She told him the gist, tickled when he responded with anger. Protective men got her juices running. That he was protective not only of her but of her friend…
“Women have it tough in the restaurant business. A lot of prejudices. Classic case of having to work twice as hard to be considered half as good.” He looked thoughtfully at the table, moving his silverware back and forth. Marie waited patiently, happy to admire the sexy gray touching his temple, and the fine line of his smooth-shaven jaw.
“That’s double reason we should go, then.” He looked up, features set in resolve, and she had to look down at her own silverware, because sometimes he was just too sexy for her to handle without disgracing herself. “I’ll do some investigating. Maybe I can put some money into Gladiolas and help her compete if it comes to that.”
Marie’s eyes shot wide. “You’d do that for her?”
“And for you. But also for business. The restaurant would have to be a good risk.”
“Of course.” She drank champagne, drank more, moved beyond anything she wanted to show him. Talk about a knight in shining armor. “When did you want to go?”
“This week.” He hauled out his iPhone; she dutifully hauled out hers, giddy from champagne and Dream Dance and Quinn. This week? She was seeing him tonight, then again at Gladiolas, then Saturday for their Chicago trip…
They made a tentative plan for the following Wednesday. The waiter refilled their glasses. And again. The rest of the champagne disappeared leisurely, accompanying an appetizer of yellowfin tuna that was out of this world. With Quinn’s steak and Marie’s lamb tenderloin, they shared a bottle of exceptional Bordeaux from Chateau Mouton-Rothschild, which probably cost more than Marie’s entire outfit. But oh, it was something. Dry, smooth and delicious not only with the meat, but with the selection of Wisconsin cheeses that followed the entrée. By that time Marie was feeling no pain, but considerable smug satisfaction that her dress wasn’t tight. For dessert they split a fruit sorbet and had coffee, Quinn paid and they staggered to the restaurant exit.
“Still feel like dancing?”
“I don’t think it matters what I feel like. I need to dance. What was that, about a week’s worth of calories?”
“What do you care?” He grabbed her hand to steer her past a boisterous bunch entering the building, and didn’t let go.
“I care because I shouldn’t gain any more weight.” She adjusted her fingers in his, loving the warm secure contact and, speaking of warm, was it her imagination or had the temperature actually risen from damp chill to less-damp chill while they were eating?
