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But I digress.
Most of my previous dates rarely looked alive unless they were rattling off a laundry list of prestigious accolades or name-dropping some designer, renowned chef, up-and-coming artist, or pseudocelebrity from their inner circle. The conversations were always superficial and stilted, like a mind-numbing game of Ping-Pong.
But Margaux is different.
Who’d have thought dinner and a simple conversation could be so . . . simplistically satisfying? The first time we went out, I couldn’t get home to my girls fast enough. Tonight, the thought hasn’t crossed my mind once. And not because I don’t miss my daughters but because I’m enjoying myself for the first time in forever.
It’s easy to be around her.
It’s even easier to talk to her.
She isn’t trying to impress me, nor am I trying to impress her.
She isn’t consumed with putting on some kind of performance that involves twisting her hair and batting her lashes and lame attempts at being flirty or witty.
She’s purely . . . Margaux.
Sliding out my phone, I tell her I’m going to call Antonio and have him bring the car around.
“Actually, could we walk around the block a little bit first?” she asks. Her ocean-blue eyes are filled with hope. Or perhaps I’m imagining it. Occam’s razor would suggest she merely wants to walk off this feast of a dinner we just put down.
“Of course.” I put my phone away and take some cash from my wallet, placing it in the leather folder along with tonight’s tab.
“Thank you for dinner,” she says as we get up to leave.
I place my hand on the small of her back as we weave through tables upon tables of patrons and make our way to the exit.
A man in a gray suit steals a glimpse at her as we pass, his eyes lingering a little too long at her cleavage. Margaux doesn’t seem to notice, but I shoot the classless bastard a dirty look anyway. His gaze darts away, returning to the poor, unaware woman sitting across from him.
Once outside, we’re met with warm, sticky night air. I shrug my jacket off and throw it over my shoulder, hooking it on my finger.
“You okay?” I ask Margaux, who hasn’t said a word since we left the table.
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine,” she says. Her heels click against the pavement as we amble forward at an unhurried pace. She isn’t in a rush, and neither am I. “I was just imagining a scenario where I literally burst out of the seams of this dress. Like what would I do, you know?”
I let out a laugh at her unexpected response.
Out of all the things she could’ve said, that was the last thing I expected.
“I’d give you my jacket,” I say. “Obviously.”
She exhales, gifting me a gorgeous smile as she peers up at me through a fringe of dark lashes.
“Now that we’ve solved that hypothetical conundrum, what are you thinking about now?” I ask. It always used to annoy me when Emma would ask what I was thinking about. At least at first. To me, my thoughts were private and personal, and if I wanted to share them with someone, I would have. But after a while, I learned it wasn’t the worst thing to empty the contents of my busy brain onto someone who actually gave a damn.
Margaux cocks her head to the side. “I’m thinking that this headband has been giving me a headache all night, but if I take it off, I’ll probably have a weird dent in my hair. Not that you’d judge me for that. At least, I don’t think you would.”
This woman’s honesty is as refreshing as a drink of cold spring water after an arduous hike, and I’m here for it.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “Take it off.”
She slides the headband off and massages her fingers into her scalp, just behind each ear. Sure enough, her hair is “dented” in those areas, but it doesn’t make her any less beautiful. If anything, it gives her an edge of imperfection—one of the things I look for most in the art pieces I collect.
“Okay, your turn,” she says, beaming at me. “What’s on your mind right now?”
If I’m being honest, I was thinking about how pretty she looked.
“I was admiring the dent in your hair,” I say. Among other things . . .
Margaux bursts into laughter, giving my arm a playful punch followed by a gentle squeeze. My breath unexpectedly catches when she touches me, but only for a fraction of a second.
“Now, what are you really thinking about?” she asks.
“Nothing, really. I’m just enjoying the moment.”
“Ah. I see. Maybe one of these days I’ll learn how to do that.”
“Are you not?” I ask.
“Not enjoying the moment?” She squints. Silence lingers in the space between our words. “Of course I am. But I’m never not thinking about something. So right now, you don’t have a single thought in your mind outside of this walk we’re on?”
