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“If you behave I’ll help warm you back up.”
I squealed as he grabbed my waist and hoisted me up from the floor, carrying me over his shoulder to the counter. “I’m in.”
With two large pots of frozen yoghurt, we walked by the Thames, under the street lights, across bridges to the south side of the river and back to the north side. We talked about everything from sports — his love of them, my ambivalence — to theatre, holidays, the oil industry. I had no idea what time it was or how long we’d been wandering, and I didn’t care.
That night, things ended well. Tonight, we really are just two friends going to dinner.
I need to remember that.
MY CAB DRIVES the main through-route of downtown Dubai. The road is flanked by rows of palm trees, each lit up by twinkling lights. We pull under a sandstone archway and into the forecourt of what looks like a palace.The driver draws a half-circle around an extravagant six-tier water fountain and pulls up to the entrance. A doorman helps me out, and I step onto a red carpet that leads me under a trellis roof. Candle lanterns flicker either side of the walkway. Fish swim in a small moat beneath my feet, illuminated by floating candles — pink, purple, white. As grand as the city is, this restaurant is possibly the most majestic place I’ve been in Dubai, possibly in my life.
A waitress greets me at the arched entrance, her black hair twisted into a bun and held by chopsticks, her red dress buttoned high at the neck and fitted to her petite frame.
“I have a reservation. Under the name of Layton, I think, Clark Layton.”
“Yes, Mr Layton is here. May I take your shawl?”
“Please.” I hand her the chiffon wrap I’d hung over my shoulders, covering the thin straps of my deep blue dress, to prevent being frowned upon by the cab driver and staff. If I’d chosen to arrive with Clark, it wouldn’t have been an issue, but I told him I’d meet him here. I made an excuse about work, hoping he wouldn’t see through the façade. In reality, I didn’t want to have him collect me from my room at the hotel as if this is a date.
“I’ll show you to your table. This way.”
I follow, my heels clicking against the tiled floor. I’ve been to Dubai countless times and rarely have I sat outside to dine. But tonight, the early-December air is enough to wrap around me and warm my skin without being unbearable.
“Mr Layton requested a table by the water,” the waitress informs me.
I stop dead in my tracks at the sight of him at a table for two on the veranda, the Burj Khalifa towering behind him. He leans back in his chair, slightly angled towards the view of the world’s tallest building. The top two buttons of his pale-blue shirt are unbuttoned under his blazer. My stomach tightens, and I feel sick with nerves. This is not a date.
“Miss, just here.”
Clark turns and runs his eyes quickly from my head to my toes. His lips turn into an earth-shattering smile. He stands to kiss my cheek. I hold his shoulders to steady myself as his lips meet my skin. I breathe him in, with no intention of moving out of his hold. Falling in love with him feels like just yesterday. The first look, the first touch, the first kiss, the first time he made love to me like no other man had ever done.
I knew this was a bad idea.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers.
I’m falling for you all over again. And I can’t.
I clear my throat, hopefully loud enough that he can’t hear my inner dark angel yearning for him, and sit down. A waiter puts two exquisite-looking cocktails down on the table — pale yellow topped with a purple flower.
“I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of ordering you a lychee cocktail,” Clark says. “They’re fantastic here.”
“You’ve been before?” I ask, unreasonably wounded and jealous that he might have been here with another woman in the past.
I laugh internally. Two weeks ago he was supposed to be married.
“Yes. On business, and I sat inside. I wanted to bring you here, outside.”
He’s eyeing me in a way that makes my heart flutter. I break from his stare, taking a sip of my cocktail and scouring my menu, willing the heat in my cheeks to dissipate.
The silence feels awkward. I steal a dangerous glance and run my eyes over the skin between the hollow of his neck and the bottom of the V made by his shirt.
“Do you mind?” he asks, holding the lapels of his blazer.
“No, please, don’t stand to attention for me, take them off, it off, your blazer, take your blazer off.”
Holy mother of fuck. Get a grip, Dayna.
I close my menu and sip my cocktail as he slips out of his blazer, the cotton of his shirt pulling across his firm pecs. I bite my straw without realising and end up slurping my drink.
