“Very good. Any appetizers?” Cory asks.
“Yes. A dozen of your best oysters on the half shell, please.”
“Any particular ones you want to try tonight?” he asks.
“Three of the Blue Point, and you choose the rest.” I nod to Skye. “Do you want anything else?”
She shakes her head. “I love raw oysters.”
I smile—a big one. A woman who loves raw oysters. Not that a person who loves raw oysters is hard to come by in Boston, but I can’t wait to eat oysters with Skye Manning. Already, I know it’s going to drive me wild.
I say nothing. I like silence. I’m comfortable in silence. Most women—at least most women who date me—aren’t. Except for Skye Manning. She doesn’t try to make the dreaded forced conversation, and I appreciate her all the more.
A few silent minutes later, our drinks arrive.
I lift my glass to my lips and take a drink. The bourbon is smoky and slightly harsh, and I love it. I let it sit on my tongue for a few seconds, let it glide over every inch of my mouth before it trickles down my throat.
And I wonder how my cock will feel jammed up against the back of Skye Manning’s throat.
Later, I’ll find out.
“Tell me,” I say after swallowing, “a little about Skye Manning. You must be something to be working for Addison.”
“I have a degree in photography and media from BU. She hired me for my photography skills.”
“For her influencing?”
“Yeah.”
“But those are selfies.”
“Actually, they’re not. I take the pictures, and she positions her arm so that it looks like a selfie to the untrained eye.”
Why am I not surprised? I grin. Another big one. I’ve got to watch myself. I never smile this much. “Sounds like classic Addie. Everything has to look perfect.”
“How do you know Addison?” she asks.
Now there’s a loaded question. The party line is that Addison Ames and I dated briefly when she was eighteen and I was twenty-four, and the relationship didn’t end well. The party line is correct. But another several layers exist to the story—layers we don’t talk about.
Not ever.
So I’m curious about what Addie may have said to Skye. She knows better than to say anything other than we had a thing ten years ago.
“She didn’t tell you?” I ask.
“Not really. I’d love to hear it from you.”
“But you witnessed the interaction between us.”
“Yeah. You weren’t overly friendly.”
Does Skye mean the plural you? Or is she referring specifically to me? I don’t bother to ask. I don’t care, and also, Cory arrives with the oysters.
“No,” I say simply.
“A dozen of tonight’s best.” Cory sets the tray between Skye and me on the table. “Starting here”—he points—“and going clockwise, we have the Katama Bay from the east coast of Martha’s Vineyard, the Moondancers from Maine, the Molly Qs from Mashpee, and then of course the Blue Points from Long Island Sound. All nicely sweet and briny, and I agree, sir, my personal favorites are the Blue Points. Did you have any questions?”
I shake my head, take out my phone, and snap a photo of the oysters that arrived. As I was interrupted earlier, I owe my social media team a post.
Skye raises her eyebrows.
“Got to keep the followers happy,” I say.
“How many followers do you have?” she asks.
“Not as many as Addison, but enough.”
“I never would have thought you were the social media type.”
Boy, is she right on the nose. “I’m not, really, but people seem to want to know what I’m up to. Probably only because I’m richer than God, which still seems a little unreal to me. I’m definitely a self-made man. I wasn’t born into money like Addison and her sister.”
I’m not quite sure why I added the part about my being different from Addie. Though it shouldn’t, what Skye thinks of me matters. I don’t particularly care what people think, so this realization settles in my stomach with a weird jolt.
“Anyway, I never really got out of the habit,” I say, not quite willing to tell her I only post because my team tells me to. “You on Instagram?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“What’s your handle?”
Her cheeks pink up again. “@stormyskye15.”
My lips twitch slightly. I can’t get over how much I want to smile a lot around this woman. I’m not sure whether that’s a good or bad thing yet. “Stormy? Why not sunny or blue? Or even cloudy?”
“Because I like stormy skies. They’re a lot more interesting than blue or sunny skies, don’t you think?”
Yes. Stormy Skye. It fits her. “I suppose I never thought about it,” I reply. “What’s interesting to you about them?”
“The colors. The gray that turns almost to green. The cumulonimbus clouds that stretch for miles but are fluffy on top.”
“Cute,” I say.
But I don’t mean that cumulonimbus clouds are cute. I mean that she’s cute. Her. Skye.
Damned cute.
“Why fifteen?” I ask.
“Because fourteen was taken.”
Damn. So fucking cute! “I’m tagging you.”
“On a photo of oysters?”
“Sure. We’re sharing them, so why not?”
Nothing like oysters at my favorite place with a new friend. #oysters #dinnerout #bostonsfinest
Good thing I’m not paid to influence like Addison is. My post-writing skills suck. I tag Skye and the restaurant and then put the phone away and nod toward the oysters. “Ladies first.”
She chooses one of the smaller Blue Points and squeezes a few drops of lemon juice on it. Then she scoops it expertly on the fork and into her mouth and takes a sip of her martini. Damn. I was looking forward to watching her slurp the oyster directly onto her tongue.
Fuck.
“Just lemon?” I ask.
She swallows. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”
“I like a little cocktail sauce.”
“Amateur,” she says with a slight teasing tone.
I meet her gaze as I take one of the Moondancers, dab it with cocktail sauce, and hold it an inch from my lips. “We’ll see who the amateur is by the time this night is over.”