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Even though he was. God, he was.
He almost made her forget the dilemma, he was that good.
She had to take a few breaths and refocus on what mattered.
“Seriously, what am I going to do, Alfie?”
“Well, the rest of the dress is good. So maybe we could try a nice wrap.”
“I don’t have a nice wrap. I have a lot of colorful cardigans and things I’ve crocheted myself.”
“There must be something among the stuff she brought. She’d never send you out in just that.” He dropped his shielding hands, but kept his eyes turned away. Then he walked toward her bedroom. “Here, let me look. I’ll find something.”
Which he did. He came out with a blue wrap-looking thing, as soft as silk with an artfully rough-looking fringe all around it. And even though he refused to so much as dart a glimpse at her, even though he kept his face turned away and his eyes on the fucking ceiling, he managed to kind of drape it over her. He arranged it, carefully, in a way a posh lady would probably have it, across her décolletage.
And it worked. It truly did.
She honestly didn’t know why he still looked like she was thumping him in the face, when he finally looked again. Though it passed as soon as it had come, so maybe it hadn’t happened. Maybe things were okay now, she thought.
As he held out an elbow to her.
And she realized something, in a rush:
She was going to have to hold on to him, for the rest of the night.
THE WINTER GARDEN
TWO-MICHELIN-STARRED FINE DINING
Our Story
The Winter Garden opened in 1972, and at the time was only the second French restaurant of its kind in the country. It offered, and still does today, an unparalleled experience of classical French cuisine, with the very highest attention to detail with regard to food, wine, and service. Under the careful guidance of Head Chef Garrison Bearing, The Winter Garden has steadily maintained its status as one of the best restaurants in Europe. We welcome you to join us on a culinary journey.*
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*Bookings may only be made six months in advance with a £300 deposit, unless you are a VIP patron.
EighteenFalling into Fondling a Beard Is Totally a Thing
The restaurant was everything she expected it to be.
Which was to say that it looked like a diamond, if a diamond could somehow serve you a meal. It almost made her want to press her face against the glass, like the Dickensian orphan she knew she was by contrast. And once inside, this feeling did not abate. It intensified. She barely wanted to touch anything, in case her grubby hands sullied it. Suddenly, all she could imagine was the manager—who most likely moonlighted as the Duke of Durham—telling her she owed the restaurant five hundred grand for melting a table with her poor-person fingerprints.
And if she couldn’t pay, she was going to debtor’s prison. Which she was willing to bet now only existed to punish people for crimes against this specific place.
“You look like you’re walking through a minefield made of ice. On stilts,” Alfie whispered to her as they were steered toward their table by the poshest person she’d ever encountered. She couldn’t do anything about it, however. She was too busy trying not to breathe in case her breath set off an alarm.
Not to mention all the walking in sky-high heels she was having to do.
