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“So we aren’t addressing this?”
“No.” He tugs his chef’s coat off, revealing a thin grey vest. I look away and unzip my dress from the bag while trying to keep my rear covered with my bunched up leggings. This is humiliating.
“Can I have some privacy?” I ask quietly as I go to pull my own vest over my head.
“I am done,” he states and I look at him over my shoulder. He exits the room wearing grey jeans and a black turtle neck, long armed jumper top that clings tightly to his body, accenting muscles I didn’t know he had. I’m happy to see that he keeps his eyes off me.
After pulling on the dress and straightening it into position, I pin my medium length hair into a messy style twist, leaving a few tendrils dangling around my face and neck. My makeup still looks decent so I leave that, slip my feet into my heels and carefully race through the kitchen where my co-workers whistle like children, calling the eyes of the restaurant to us. My cheeks flame.
“Hurry,” Kerim says and I feel his hand on my elbow. He guides me to our cosy little carpark and leads me around his flashy, dark Bentley. After opening the door and waiting for me to take a seat, he races to his side and starts the car.
I’d call him a gentleman but after his display in the staff room, he’s the farthest from that.
He mumbles under his breath in Turkish.
“What was that?”
“I’m just begging for there to be no traffic.” He glances at me and smiles. “I have a reputation for being late, but not this late.”
“How late are we?”
“Just under an hour.”
“Kerim!” I whine, his name a long note. “We’re going to look like idiots.”
“It’s fine; our table is on hold. Besides, the food will be tastier now the pans have been used for a while.”
“So, what restaurant is it?”
“Silver Kitchen.”
“You’re kidding?”
“You’ve heard of it?” He asks, glancing at me again.
“I went to university with the owner’s son a few years back.”
He nods. “Darrick Silver?”
“The one and only. Massive nobhead.”
His bark of laughter confirms his agreement. “The entire family is one ball of nobhead.”
This makes me giggle quietly, purely because of his accent and the fact it didn’t make sense. His smile of pride at his ability to make me laugh only makes me giggle harder.
“We shall go, eat, have a drink or two as we socialise with idiots and then return to the restaurant. Good?”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
My phone starts to vibrate in my clutch. It startles me and for some reason I panic as I try to pull it from my bag and drop it between the seat and the console.
“Oops.”
“You have little fingers; you can reach it,” Kerim laughs as I twist to try and pull my glowing phone from its dark grave.
When I finally grasp it and slowly pull it up, I look at Nathan’s handsome face on the screen and notice I answered the call about twenty four seconds ago.
The second I utter a breathless, “Hey,” he yells, “Who the fuck is that?”
“It… it’s Kerim.” I respond, startled at the anger in his tone. I’ve never heard such an angry tone come from him. Well, not for a long time.
“Why are you with Kerim on your own?” He still sounds angry. His tone is menacing, fuelled by jealousy.
“We’re going to a restaurant opening.”
“A what?” He snarls.
“Stop speaking to me like that. It’s for work.”
“You’re being wined and dined… for work?” His sceptical tone is completely unwarranted.
“I tried to tell you.”
“Did you? Where in your messages does it say that you’re going on a date with your boss for work?”
Kerim curses in Turkish and I only know it’s a curse because he uses it on Harold frequently. “Shall I talk?” He whispers but I wave him off. I feel so embarrassed.
“I’ll call you later,” I whisper to my future husband, wishing I knew what had gotten into him.
“Don’t you dare hang…”
The line goes dead when my thumb shakily hits the red button on the screen to end the call. I’m unsurprised when he calls back immediately but I am worried. This is unlike him. He has never reacted so untrustingly and so unstably towards me or anything I’ve ever done. The shock of his reaction is sending painful tingles over the surface of my skin.
“Are you okay?” Asks Kerim softly as I take a few calming breaths.
“Yeah, he’s just tired. He’s not usually so hostile.” I make out like it isn’t bothering me and I can’t tell if he believes me or not. “I’m hungry; do you think the food will be good?”
“I hope not or we’ll lose even more business.”
“Such bad sportsmanship.”
“I never claimed to be a good loser.”
“Have you ever lost?”
He thinks on it for a moment as he navigates the car through the dark, complicated streets of the city. “No.”
