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I wonder how Leka even found this place and worse, who he brought here. Everywhere I look there are couples.
“What are you going to order?” Leka asks.
“I haven’t decided yet.” I can’t decipher the stuff on the menu. A preparation of langoustine? Dashi gelée? Lemon-potato mousseline? Is that like a potato stuffed with mussels? A real woman would know what these things are. A real woman would have already eaten all of these things and would be able to explain in five-syllable words exactly why they’re all so delicious.
I shrink down in my chair. “I’ll have the special.”
“Okay. Me, too.” Leka snaps the menu closed.
The waiter shows up seconds later and takes our order.
“Two specials,” Leka says.
“Very good. I’m sure you’ll love it,” the waiter replies. “The yellowtail collar is considered the best part of the hamachi.”
“Yellowtail?” I echo. “Isn’t that fish?”
The waiter shoots me an odd look. “Yes. Hamachi is Japanese yellowtail. The hamachi kama is so special it is traditionally reserved for family or friends of the owner. Unlike most hamachi, this isn’t raw, but caramelized under a low flame.”
“I didn’t know you liked fish,” Leka says.
I hate fish. “I thought hamachi was grilled beef.”
The waiter sniffs. “You mean hibachi.”
I couldn’t have sounded stupider if I’d planned it. My cheeks grow hot.
Leka takes pity on me. “Do you have beef?”
“No, we do not have beef,” the waiter replies in slightly offended tone. “We serve a lamb loin and belly with chayote gratin topped with a chili-infused cranberry reduction.”
Leka and I lock eyes. He rises and throws several hundred dollars on the table. “Thanks. We’ll pass.”
“What?” The waiter is shocked.
I spring to my feet. Leka rounds the table, brushes by the frozen waiter, and grabs my hand. We power walk past a dozen tables and arrive at the hostess stand where the two gossipy women are greeting guests.
Leka halts. “This girl? She’s as beautiful and bright as the sun. Anyone who doesn’t see it is blind.”
The Taylor Swift lookalike blanches and tries to stammer out an apology, but Leka’s already moving on. I give the girl a wave, though, just so she knows there are no hard feelings. Leka just told a room full of rich socialites and business people that I was beautiful and bright like the sun. I’m floating on air.
“Sorry,” he says as we climb into his car. “I thought we could do something nice since you just got home.”
“It’s the thought that counts.” A pithy statement, but still true. I smile to myself.
“What those women said, about you not being pretty enough for me, that’s all bullshit. You know that, right?”
“I don’t care.” Most of the time, my looks—or lack thereof—don’t bother me. It’s only when I get fearful of losing Leka that I start feeling insecure.
“Good.” He guns the engine and we head for home. “Call for the vermicelli. Tell them to leave it with the doorman. While we’re driving, you can tell me what you were doing all day.”
“Don’t you already know? Terry tailed me the whole time. Your day doorman isn’t a very good PI.”
Leka grunts. “He’s a doorman. What do you expect?”
“I didn’t expect to be followed around the city as I applied for jobs.”
He tightens his hands around the steering wheel. “And why exactly are you applying for jobs?”
I sigh. “We already went over this. I’m going to get my own apartment—”
“You’re going back to school as soon as we can arrange it,” he interrupts coldly. “Until that time, you’ll live in our apartment.”
The joy at being called beautiful is obliterated by his terse words. “It’s not our apartment. It’s your apartment. If it was ours, you wouldn’t be telling me what to do.”
“Is this about you being eighteen?”
“No. This is about you seeing me as an adult. It’s about you acknowledging that I’m a woman and it’s okay for us to be together. It’s about me sleeping in a bed we call ours instead of mine or yours. That’s what this is about.” My words end on a shrill note.
“That will never happen,” he growls.
“Why?”
“Because it won’t. End of discussion.” His jaw tightens so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t crack.
“I’m not done talking about it. Why are you stalking me?”
“It’s called protecting you, and it’s a good thing I sent him along because you left your phone at home.”
“You track my phone?” I squawk, turning in my seat to glare at Leka. “For how long?” He slides a reproving look toward me that asks how dumb am I. “Since you abandoned me in Boone?” I exclaim.
“I didn’t abandon you. You went to school like two hundred other girls from across the country.”
“I disagree with your characterization, but can we get back to the stalking thing? Have you really kept tabs on me since you left me in Boone?”
He doesn’t reply, but that’s all the answer I need.
