Without thinking twice, I pluck my wallet from my jeans and slide her my Amex Centurion. “Head to Barney’s. I’ll call ahead.”
“Oh god, no I couldn’t—”
“I insist,” I cut off her cut with a firm tone, before heading for the stairs. “Masa, nine-pm. Don’t be late.”
18
Violet
The last few hours have passed in a blur of tape measures, perfumed dressing rooms, and complimentary champagne.
It’s crazy how quickly life can come at you. I went from being horizontal in bed with a box of tissues to standing on a platform in a private suite at Barney’s while three personal shoppers and two seamstresses fussed over me like I’m royalty.
I don’t know why Donnacha had a sudden change of heart. I don’t know what prompted him to interrupt my never-ending Friend’s marathon with his daughter and insist on taking me to the most prestigious restaurant in Manhattan.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t suspicious. The optimist in me has taken a severe beating over the last few days, and I can’t understand how he’s gone from saying less than three words to me a day to wanting to have a full conversation with me over dinner.
But right now, I don’t care. I need all the distractions I can get from the real world. The one in which I’ve been kicked out of nursing school.
A shiny car picks me up outside of Barneys and takes me on the three-minute drive to the restaurant. Before I know it, I’m walking down solid oak stairs into the unknown with the help of a Maitre D’.
The choas of Columbus Circle and the hypnotic charm of the underground restaurant are like day and night. I leave the taxis and tourists in another life and embrace the serenity of the dimly lit room, filled only with an amber glow, two long benches and a beautiful Japanese tree, its branches snaking along the bare walls.
I don’t see him until he’s on the other side of the table. But then when I do, he’s all I see: A looming figure in all black, gesturing to the seat opposite him with a tight smile. “You made it,” he says, sinking back into his bench just after I do.
In all the excitement of feeling like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, I’d forgotten how handsome my Richard Gere is. Stealing a glance at the handful of other diners, I realize he’s the only man not in a suit, but he also looks the most well-dressed. His long sleeve sweater hugs every sharp edge of his body, just like his thick beard does with his jawline. No glasses today, meaning no barrier between his intense gaze and me.
“Well, the car service helped,” I reply, wringing my hands under the table. Butterflies dance in my stomach, their flapping wings reverberating around my body and making me shake a little.
“Stand up again,” he commands.
“Excuse me?”
“Stand.”
Unsure of what’s going on, I slowly rise to my feet. His eyes take their time running over the black velvet dress I decided on, which a fast-working seamstress cut and sewed until it fitted me like a glove.
“Wow,” he murmurs. “You look unbelievable.”
Me? I was suspicious before, but now I’m one step away from scanning the restaurant for hidden cameras. Through the embarrassment prickling on my cheeks, I mutter some type of thanks and hide myself behind the menu. “That’s what three hours of hair and makeup will do to you, I guess.” I eventually manage.
“Nonsense.” He says. “I got you something, by the way.”
“Why?” I try to laugh, but it gets stuck at the back of my throat. “You’ve given me enough today.”
My eyes bulge out of my head when he pulls a small leather box out of nowhere. “Open it,” he says, sliding it across the silky tablecloth. “I was going to wait until after dinner, but…” his large hand does a sweep in the direction of my body. “I think it’ll match your necklace.”
When I open the box, all the nervous air leaves my lungs in an off-key laugh. Sparkles. That’s all I can see at first under the warm amber lighting. Expensive-looking sparkles. Two of them.
“What—” I gasp, “I can’t—”
“You can,” he says firmly, with the same sharp tone he told me to take his credit card with earlier. “You have to.”
“Why?”
“Because if Immigration come knocking, it looks suspicious if you’re not wearing a ring.”
My heart sinks a little at his rational response. But I’m still clinging onto my Cinderella dream as he takes the box with one hand, and my wrist with the other. His cool fingertips are surprisingly delicate as he slips both bands on my wedding finger. They weigh my hand down in a familiar way. As if replacing something I’ve been missing. For a brief moment it feels like fate — but I quickly realize it’s because I was used to wearing rings on this finger for years.
I push the sour thought out of my brain. This is one moment that my ex-husband isn’t going to ruin.
“I love them,” I say, holding my hand up to the light to watch the diamonds dance. “I don’t know what to say.” We lock eyes over the table. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you.” He says quietly. “For agreeing to this.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to turn down dinner at—”
“No,” he interrupts. “For agreeing to marry me. I appreciate it.”
Warmth floods through my body before I can even recognize why. Maybe it’s the way he’s staring at me. Maybe it’s the soft scent of his oaky cologne drifting up my nostrils, drawing me closer and closer to him. Phew, it’s hot in here.
The server appears, cutting through my dirty thoughts like a steak knife. “Wine?” Donnacha asks me, browsing the menu.
“That’d be lovely.”
“Very well,” he says to the server. “We’ll have the ‘92 Rioja.”
“With sushi?” I interject before I can stop myself. I fluster under Donnacha’s arched eyebrow. “Sorry— uh, it’s just, that’s a bit of a weird pairing.” His eyes flick to the server, who smirks in response.
“Well, what would you choose?”
I draw my gaze away from him and down to the wine list. “Something which hasn’t been heavily oaked,” I say, “something a little sweeter. The Riesling or the Chardonnay, perhaps. Yes. The Chardonnay.”
“Excellent choice, Madam,” the server assures me, flinging a knowing look in my direction. When I turn my attention back to Donnacha, I’m surprised to see a smile dancing on his lips.
“I’m impressed, Violet. And how comes you’re a wine connoisseur?”
“My dad…” I trail off, swallowing the lump catching in my throat. “He owned a vineyard on the West Coast.”
His eyebrows raise once more, this time in surprise. “Really? Which one?”
“The Washington in Napa.”
He absorbs what I’m telling him with a slow nod of his head. I’ve noticed that men with a lot of true power take their time. Choosing things, responding to questions. Whatever. They do it slowly and assertively, like the world can wait on them. “Owned?”
“Yes.” The server comes back with a bottle and snakes around the table to pour into our glasses. “He’s passed.”