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“Yes. Fifteen pounds easily.”
“The doctor in me cringes at the thought of living on caffeine and nicotine.”
“It’s a miracle I didn’t destroy my metabolism permanently.” She pulled her phone out. “Would you like to see some photos of me from the runway?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
She handed me her phone and I studied the image on the screen. She was wearing some kind of giant blue garment that wrapped around her like a tube. A very skinny tube. Her hair was teased up high and her makeup was hot pink. I wasn’t even sure whether it was a dress or a straightjacket. The fashion didn’t interest me though. It was her expression. The classic blank stare of the runaway model. With hollow cheeks.
It didn’t really reflect anything of her personality.
“Very interesting,” I said. “You absolutely look the part. I can see how you were successful.”
“I really wasn’t that successful. But it was a learning experience, I will say that.”
“I can imagine. Now since that was then and this is now, what would you like to order? Do you want an appetizer or straight to the entrée?”
The look she gave me made me very aware she was no longer thinking about dinner.
“Tonight? Straight to the entrée.”
God, she was so fucking hot. I raised my hand for the waitress. I suddenly wanted to rush dinner and get her back to my place.
“So we need to establish some rules,” she said, eyeing the engagement ring again.
“I agree.” We couldn’t just stumble into this blind. We needed ground rules. “What are yours?”
“If I’m moving in with you, all of your ex-wife’s things need to go. I can’t live in the shadow of her Louboutins. I don’t mean to be insensitive but we’ll never have a fighting chance if you’re still mourning.”
“Done.” I didn’t really want to spell out to her that my marriage hadn’t been a roaring success. If it hadn’t been for Becca getting sick, there was a high probability we’d have been divorced in another year. But that was a conversation for another day. “The clothes were it, really. I don’t have anything personal of hers. I gave that all back to her parents years ago.”
She nodded. “Okay, then. Also, I’m keeping my flat and you have no say in that.”
The waitress came up to the table right then. She had pretty much the worst timing ever. Or maybe it was more like since we’d arrived, Felicia and I had been engaged in a very bizarre conversation from an outside perspective.
“Why, do you want somewhere to meet a twenty-two-year old fuckboy?” I asked Felicia. I intended it to sound casual, but it didn’t. It sounded jealous, which was a dick move on my part. I should have let it go, just ordered some mussels and moved on, but the thought of her seeing another man got in my head and made my jaw clench.
Her mouth fell open. “No! There’s nowhere for my stock at your place. I’m not moving all of that, for one thing. For another, I need a space to work that doesn’t involve you present.”
“I’m at work all day.”
“I don’t care.”
I eyed her. I felt like we were engaged in some sort of power struggle and I wasn’t sure why. “Keep yo
ur apartment. I don’t care. I really don’t.” As long as she wasn’t meeting a man there, I didn’t. It made sense from a security standpoint for her, in case she decided she didn’t want a K1 visa.
Or me. If she didn’t want me.
“Just like that, you’re giving in?”
We had to start off on the right foot or this would never work and that meant I had to fully trust what she told me was the truth. “Yes. Are you ordering or not? Anna has been standing here listening to our ridiculous conversation probably wishing we would go to hell and free up this table.”
Given that Anna still didn’t say anything, I figured I had the right of it.
“I’m so sorry, Anna,” Felicia said. “He rattled me at fuckboy. I apologize. I’ll take the branzino and whatever side you recommend with it.”
“That’s a whole branzino, miss,” Anna said.
