Chrissy fucking Matheson stood on the other side of the doors, ruining our perfect moment. She looked bored at first, but as soon as her eyes landed on Mr. Chamberlain, she completely changed her attitude. Her eyes dropped in what I assumed she thought was a sultry manner, her body softened as her chest popped out a few inches further, and her lips shifted into a welcoming smile.
“Good evening, Mr. Chamberlain. Are you off for the night?”
I knew he could feel my instinctual response to her silent insinuation that she could keep him company. My hand clenched in his as I leaned into him a little bit more. I wasn’t sure if I was protecting him or myself. I knew she couldn’t see our hands between us because we were so close together, but that should have been her first clue. There was no reason for us to be standing so close in the confines of the elevator.
Mr. Chamberlain gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “Good evening, Ms. Matheson. Quentin and I were just leaving for dinner.”
I couldn’t help the soft smile that appeared on my face. I didn’t know if it was from the way he’d said it so matter-of-factly or if it was from the confusion slowly overtaking Chrissy’s face.
“Have a nice night,” he said as he stepped around her, dismissing her.
His sudden movement caused his hand to pull mine forward, making the fact we were holding hands very noticeable. I watched in delight as her eyes dropped to our hands and widened in shock. Stepping forward, I followed Mr. Chamberlain off the elevator and across the lobby, aware of her eyes on us the entire time.
As soon as we stepped outside, the giggle I’d suppressed exploded out of me. “Did you see her face?”
He smiled as he watched me. God, he was so sexy when he actually smiled. “Behave,” he replied without any heat.
“You know she’s going to tell everyone in the office about this tomorrow, right?” I asked, genuinely curious about his reaction.
“Good,” he said, satisfaction plain on his face.
“Was that your plan all along?” I asked as we stepped off the sidewalk and into the parking lot by Mr. Chamberlain’s car.
“Maybe it was,” he replied as he followed me around to the passenger side and opened the door for me. Slipping inside, I watched as he walked around the front and slid into the driver’s seat.
Not wanting to get into any serious or lengthy discussion on the way to the restaurant, I turned to him and asked, “What’s your favorite color?”
He glanced at me, a teasing smile on his lips. “Gold.”
I shifted in my seat, thinking of his comments in the elevator. Mr. Chamberlain wasn’t shy, that was for sure.
“What’s yours?” he asked in return.
“Purple. What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?” I twisted in my seat until I was able to watch him.
He took a second to think. “Mint chocolate chip and you?”
“Strawberries and homemade vanilla. I like fruity flavors over chocolate ones,” I explained.
“Good, we won’t have to share. What’s your favorite holiday?” he asked, taking over the interrogation.
“Christmas.” I remembered making cookies and gingerbread houses with Mrs. Bird and decorating the house with Mr. Stanley. I thought about Mr. Sutton, our gardener, pulling me in a sled behind him as we ventured into the woods to find the perfect tree and making homemade gifts out of macaroni and construction paper with my nanny, Mrs. Gray.
“Me, too,” Mr. Chamberlain said as we stopped in front of the restaurant and the waiting valet.
Stepping out, I waited by the entrance while he exchanged his keys for the ticket. When he returned to my side, he took my hand again and led me through the door. The hostess showed us to our table after confirming our reservation.
I spent what felt like hours poring over the menu. I was so hungry, and everything looked so good that I was having a hard time deciding. I knew I should have looked at the menu and decided beforehand.
Mr. Chamberlain reached across the table and placed a hand over mine. “Quentin, if you want to try several different things, you can. We can always share.”
Relieved, we spent a few minutes debating our options and settled on a list of dishes. I had no idea how we were going to eat so much food, but I was going to make a valiant effort.
When the waiter returned with our drinks, Mr. Chamberlain took over ordering our dinner while I sipped on my mango lassi. The waiter left, leaving us to our own devices.
Watching as he drank his tea, I let my curiosity about him overtake me. “What were you like as a child?”
He laughed, setting his drink back down. “Boring.”
“Oh, come on,” I teased, propping my chin on the palm of my hand. “You weren’t some wild little thing?”
“No, we lived in a suburb on the west side of town. I didn’t go starving by any means, but staying afloat was a daily struggle for my parents. My mom is still the secretary at the local elementary school. My dad is a mechanic but used to pick up odd construction jobs on the side. My parents thought they shielded me from all that stuff, but I caught on pretty fast. I decided not to add to their burden.”
Listening to his story, I could sense the love he felt for his parents. It infused his every word. I tried to imagine my parents like that, but the image wouldn’t form.
“When I started making good money as a lawyer, I offered to buy them a new house in a nice part of town, but they refused. So, over the years, I’ve renovated my mom’s kitchen, turned my old bedroom into her craft room, added a garage for my father, and the man cave he’d always talked about. What about you?” he asked, showing his curiosity.
“I grew up north of the city,” I said, looking down and fiddling with my silverware. It was a little awkward for me since everyone knew the rich people lived north of the city. “My dad owns a software company, and my mom’s a socialite.”
I didn’t really know what else to say since that was pretty much the extent of my knowledge. I mean, I could have gone on about the parties they attended and the charities they donated to, but I hated talking about all that stuff. It wasn’t as if they did it out of the kindness of their hearts. No, they did all that stuff to maintain their perfect image.
“I went to private schools, but hated it.” All the people there had been little copies of their parents—of my parents.
“What did you like to do?”
I smiled and answered honestly. I knew how revealing my words would be, but I refused to hide the real people who had loved me. “I liked to cook and bake. Whenever I had a particularly bad day, Mrs. Bird and I would make sugar cookies, and then we’d decorate them with frosting and sprinkles. Mr. Stanley would always try sneaking one when our backs were turned.”
I chuckled, remembering another story. “And Mr. Sutton would make me pull weeds with him in the garden for days whenever I acted up.” I leaned across the table and dropped my voice. “Don’t tell him, but secretly, I liked it. And I loved it when Mrs. Gray would read to me.”
He studied me for a moment. “I see.” And I had the feeling he did. It was both scary and exhilarating.
Thankfully, the waiter returned with our food and broke the charged moment. Looking at the array of curry, vindaloo, and korma, I was in heaven.
“What would you like to try first?” I asked, hoping he’d allow me to serve him in a small way.