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I hit send on the text message and push the device into my pocket.
Chelsea grabs the wine bottle by the neck and pulls it from the ice bucket. I lean forward and place my hand over the rim of her glass before she has time to refill. “You may want to pace yourself.”
Her eyes widen with indignation. “Move your hand.”
I quirk my brow. “Or what? You don’t strike me as a drink-from-the-bottle kind of girl.”
“You have no idea what kind of girl I am.”
“Of course I do, Chelsea.”
Her expression falters, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Am I finally making headway with her?
I’m about to tell her how utterly breathtaking she looks when wine spills onto the back of my hand and seeps between my fingers. Instinctively I pull my hand away.
With a devious grin on her face, Chelsea continues to pour the wine into her glass. “Like I said”—she tips the glass back and finishes her drink in one—“you have no idea what kind of girl I am.”
Her eyes twinkle with mischief, and the urge to pull her over my knee and spank her tight little arse has me shifting in my seat.
“Transparent enough for you? You didn’t see that coming, did you?” Her tone is light-hearted, though I know I’ve hit a nerve. I could continue with the direction of our conversation and see just how far I can push her. But I don’t want to ruffle her feathers just yet, there will be plenty of time after we’ve eaten.
“You beguile me,” I say simply.
Chelsea’s mouth forms a cute little O. “What the hell does that even mean?”
The sound of the front door opening causes us to break eye contact. Ronald and a team of caterers pile in with our food. Ronald is tall and gangly, and his long auburn hair is secured into a tidy man-bun. He is wearing a black suit with an off-white dicky bow secured to the collar of his shirt. He acknowledges me with a curt nod of the head and stands back whilst the catering team begin laying the food out on the kitchen island. Silver clangs together as domed plate covers are removed. The air is filled with the aromatic scent of a French restaurant.
Chelsea’s eyes are wide as she looks over the sheer mass of food. “We’re never going to eat all of that.”
She is right, of course. I ordered two of everything on the menu. I can already feel the judgement in her stare. She thinks that because I am rich that I’m wasteful, but she couldn’t be further from the truth. “All the leftovers will be hand-delivered to the nearest homeless shelter.”
Chelsea’s expression softens. She looks at me differently now and, tilting her head to the right, she lowers her glass onto the table. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Be a dick as well as a half-decent guy at the same time?”
I keep my expression neutral. “Skill.”
An explosion of laughter erupts from Chelsea’s lips. Her whole face comes to life when she laughs. What I’d give to be the man to put a smile on her face every day. Slowly her laughter dies down. She looks from me to the catering staff as they begin to pile out.
Her body hunches forward and her fingers begin to circle around a long lock of her hair, not once but over and over. It amazes me how quick the shift in her body language from jovial to uncomfortable is. “So, what’s on the menu?” she asks, and I suspect her question is a way of filling the silence.
I nod toward the kitchen island. “For starters we have escargots a la Bourguignonne, duck pâté en croûte,tartare de filet de boeuf…”
She raises her hand. “Please, speak English.”
“Life would be very boring if we had all the answers. Don’t you prefer a little mystery?”
Chelsea curves an eyebrow, her gaze homing in on the tray Ronald is carrying over. “Not when that mystery includes eating bugs.”
I figure Chelsea is referring to the eight large snail shells that are heading our way. “Invertebrates,” I say, matter-of-factly. “Snails are not bugs, nor are they insects. They are invertebrates, they have no backbone and—”
Chelsea raises her hand. “I don’t need to know a snail’s anatomy, Lucian. The fact is they’re slimy and slither around in the mud. I am not putting that in my mouth.”
I make eye contact with Ronald just as he is about to present us with the escargots. I give a discreet shake of the head, and within seconds the starter is back on the kitchen island and the domed plate cover is placed over the top.
