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Savini goes to work pulling the top off a brand-new bottle of rye, and fills two cups, mine first, then his. “Tell me something about you.”
"I thought we were here to discuss legal matters?" I carefully sip the rye, not wanting to consume too much too soon. I have to be here for nearly two hours, I can't afford to get sloppy in the first ten minutes, even if what I really want is to drain every drop of the honey-colored decadence into my mouth. He, on the other hand, can drink up. The more intoxicated he becomes, the more information I can get from him.
“Do we have client confidentiality?” Savini matches my pace, only drinking a sip of his rye.
Shit. Is that how things are going to go? At this rate, he’ll never even get buzzed.
A waiter appears through a swinging door that must go to the kitchen with two small plates in his grasp. “Your first course, a smoked trout filled with goat cheese and roasted fig.”
The second he leaves, I stare at the small, beautiful creation in front of me, then to the man across the way. “How many courses?”
His lips tug back, almost like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t. Savini does that a lot. The almost but not quite. It’s like he’s determined to look as miserable as possible at all times.
“How many?” I repeat.
“Twelve.”
My eyes widen, my stomach happy but my mind spinning with the lengths he’s gone through to impress me tonight. That’s what this is, him trying to flaunt his influence? If only he knew the lengths I’ve gone through to get to him.
“And we’re going to get through that in two hours?”
Savini shrugs, not bothered by the time restraint. “It won’t if you continue to question everything.”
I shove the entire hunk of trout into my mouth, intending to scarf it down quickly, but the second the flavors melt together, I let out a small moan and savor the rest of it. "Damn, that's good." I wipe my lips and wash the food down with some rye.
“Perhaps you could taste your next course instead of swallowing it whole.”
I stare at him a moment too long, his last few words—swallowing it whole—lingering for what seems like an eternity between us.
Savini raises one of his bushy eyebrows. “Something you’d like to share with the class?”
Yeah, the fact that I don’t know which I want more: to kill you or fuck you. Both, sitting high on my list of priorities.
How is it possible to want someone so badly when you hate them so much?
“I’m still waiting on you to tell me something about yourself.” I change the subject from anything but the raging girl boner I have for him right now.
“What do you want to know?” Savini leans back in his chair, his resolve softening but his walls built up high. He isn’t going to give me anything I don’t pry out of him.
“Let’s start with how old you are. That should be easy enough, right?”
“Forty-nine. You?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Does that satisfy your thirst for knowledge?”
“When’s your birthday?” I ask him, unsure but hopeful he’ll answer me.
“November 1st. Would you like my social security number, too?”
The waiter comes into the room again. “And for your second course, a sweet potato crisp with a goat cheese caviar.” Somehow, he manages to replace our old plates with new ones in a fluid and swift motion.
“Thank you,” I tell him as he leaves, and then focus on Savini. “Do you have a pen?”
“Why?” He straightens in his seat, coming closer to the table.
“For your social. That’s a lot of numbers to memorize.”
