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“Oh, I know that. I read all about his engagement to some photographer or influencer.”
He clears his throat. “Yeah, her name is Skye.”
“I find their story fascinating. The blue-collar billionaire. I mean, the three of them worked in construction, and now look at them.”
“Yep, pretty amazing. It’s a great place to work, too. Wonderful benefits. They take care of their people.”
Such a nice guy, this Tom Carson.
And I’m bored out of my mind.
It’s my own fault. I’m the one who asked about Braden Black. I am interested. I mean, he’s an amazing success story, but now we’re talking about all the benefits he offers to his employees.
Bo-ring.
The waitress—her name tag says Summer—returns with my drink. “Here you go. I hope you enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I will.”
I pick it up and take a sip.
And I’m transported back, back to the bar, sitting with Phantom. The marble tile floor, the dark-wood bar, the mirrored shelves with top-shelf liquor…and those dark eyes blazing into my own…
“Uh…Frankie?”
I widen my eyes as I take another sip. “Sorry, what?”
“You seemed a million miles away for a moment.”
That’s because I was. Though only about six miles away, to be exact, sitting at the bar with Phantom.
“So you promised me a taste.”
“And as I recall, you said you’d rather not.”
“But then you pressed, and you talked me into it.”
He’s right. I did. But for some reason, I feel very possessive of this drink right now. Like it’s my only link to Phantom, who I’m pretty sure was in this restaurant earlier. Unmasked and everything.
I reluctantly hand the martini glass to Tom.
He takes a tentative sip and then makes a face. “Ugh. I guess I’m still not a martini fan.”
“This isn’t just any martini,” I tell him. “Can’t you taste the floral from the elderflower liqueur? It mingles with the juniper, and it’s like a crisp autumn day.”
“All I taste is rubbing alcohol.” He hands it back to me.
“To each his own, I guess.” I take another sip.
And I wonder how I can cut this date short.
Summer returns to the table. Though I hid behind my menu, I didn’t actually read it. I’m nursing my martini, trying to make it last, because I can’t have another one. I don’t want to lose my faculties and end up falling into bed with Tom Carson.
Not that I have any desire to, but if I keep drinking, I may see things differently.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I haven’t even looked at the menu.”
“You need a few more minutes?”
“No.” I open my menu, my gaze landing first on the rack of lamb. That won’t do. I don’t like lamb. I don’t like eating baby animals, and I hate the taste anyway.
I glance up above the rack of lamb. “I’ll have the Muscovy duck.”
I’ve never had Muscovy duck. I’ve had regular duck, and I like it.
“How would you like that cooked?”
“Medium, please.”
“Any soup or salad with that?”
“No, thank you.”
I don’t want this date to last any longer than it has to.
One sip of the martini and all I can think about is tomorrow night, when I’ll see Phantom again.
“And for you, sir?”
“I’d like to start with the calamari, and then a house salad with ranch dressing, please, followed by the prime rib, medium rare.”
What? No chocolate soufflé for dessert? This date is going to go on forever.
“Perfect,” Summer says, “and would you like to add any sides to that?”
Tom glances at the menu. “Asparagus spears sound good.”
“And ma’am, I forgot to ask if you wanted any sides?”
“It says the duck comes with wild rice pilaf and green beans.”
“Yes, it does. But did you want anything else?”
I close the menu and hand it to her. “No, thank you.”
“Perfect. I’ll get these in. And sir, your calamari should be out soon.”
Great. Tom ordered an appetizer and a salad. Which means I get to watch him eat while I wait for my food. Here I thought I could get out of here quickly if I only ordered an entrée. I didn’t consider the fact that he might want something more than an entrée. He’ll probably want dessert, too. And coffee.
My martini is about halfway gone. I desperately want it to last, because with each sip I take, the floral and woodsy flavor slides over my tongue and I remember more and more about Phantom.
Then I have an idea. “Would you excuse me?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I grab my purse on the pretense of going to the bathroom, but I edge past the restrooms and back to the host’s podium.
“Excuse me,” I say to the host who seated me. “Would it be possible for me to find out who had a reservation here earlier?”
“I’m sorry. We don’t normally give out that information.”
“I know, and I understand. It’s just that I think a friend of mine was in here earlier.”
