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“Yes.”
She bats her eyelashes and takes my empty glass away.
I glance at my watch. She’s seven minutes late.
And Miss Myers is never late.
I’m halfway through my second gin and tonic when she shows up, weaving her way through the tables with flushed cheeks.
Her hair is down.
For an entire year, I don’t think it ever has been. It falls in curly sheets of mahogany around her face, framing pink cheeks and a soft mouth. She’s wearing makeup, too. Has to be. Because she hadn’t looked like this in the office.
I would have noticed.
“Sorry I’m late.” She misses the waiter hurrying to pull out her chair and has a seat. She notices him a second later. “Oh no, did I beat you to it? I’m sorry.”
“Not a problem, miss. Can I take your coat?”
“Yes, please, that would be lovely.” She shrugs out of it, revealing a dark blue silk blouse. Several buttons are undone and I glimpse a sliver of a lace bra. “Thank you.”
“Of course. I’ll be right back with the menu.”
She beams at him like he’s discovered a cure for cancer. The smile disappears when she turns her focus on me. “I’m sorry. The subway stopped between two stations.”
“You took the subway here.”
“Yes, it’s a quaint little invention.” But then she remembers herself, and her brief flash of humor fades. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to Salt. I’ve just scheduled it for you. You know, I’ve spoken to the maître d’ a hundred times and not once did I picture him having a moustache like that.”
My lips turn down. “Miss Myers, you said you wanted us to talk.”
“So I did,” she says, opening the menu. Her hands grip it tight. “I’ve always wanted to try the mushroom ravioli they have here. You wouldn’t know how it is, of course. You don’t like mushrooms.”
I stare at her for a long moment before Irving’s words ring back in my head. The wedding is in two days. I need her to say yes, which means I can’t simply ask her why she wanted to meet tonight. I need to woo her.
We’re still negotiating.
“That’s right,” I say. “I’ve never been able to get over the taste of earth.”
Her eyes meet mine over the edge of her menu. “Let me guess. You’re going to have the beef wellington with a glass of the 2006 Merlot?”
“Yes. You know that, yet you accuse us of being strangers?”
“I know some of your likes and dislikes,” she says. “Doesn’t mean we genuinely know each other.”
“Fair enough. Well, tonight I’m an open book. What do you want to know?”
She lowers her menu. “You’re an open book.”
“Sure.”
“You’re the furthest thing from an open book I’ve ever seen.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Well, I’ll make an attempt. If you need this to feel confident going forward, then I’ll do it.”
“To feel confident?”
“Yes. With the marriage.”
