With a kiss. With a conversation about Devon. With a discussion of what, exactly, is going on between us. I’m not sure what will happen, but I don’t want to be the one to initiate it. I’ve decided to ignore all of my questions and worries for a change and try to enjoy myself.
How many times have Mom or Devon told me to stop planning, live for the moment? Lisa would take it one step further—she blames my need to control for sabotaging my last few relationships. I’m not a controlling person, or at least I don’t think I am, but I do like to know what’s coming next. Which is why this thing with Enzo is putting me so on edge.
Not to mention I’ve never wanted to touch someone more in my entire life. Lying at home in my bed, imagining him kissing me, touching me . . . that’s one thing. But it’s a whole new ball game now that I’m sitting here next to him. When it could actually happen.
This is the big leagues, and I’m way out of practice.
“Here it is.”
It’s close enough that we probably could have walked, but there’s no denying the elegance of pulling up to the restaurant and having the driver come around to open our door. I sometimes imagined myself living in the city after college, but places like this intimidate me.
Enzo gets out first, but only so he can reach for my hand and help me out. I forget my purse and have to make a not-so-elegant grab for it at the last second. Then I put my hand in his and all of the white noise starts to float away.
Breathe. Like a normal person.
His grasp is so firm and confident, pulling me out of the car. Before I can register anything else, he lets it go, the brief touch ending way too soon. But our eyes meet, and at least I know I’m not the only one affected here. To think, a little over a week ago things were humming along just fine. Teaching the little ones. Having dinner with Mom. Happy hour with friends. Cursing the cold. Waiting for summer.
Life was good, or at least good-ish.
Now here I am, entering the most luxurious restaurant I’ve ever seen in my life. I didn’t catch the name because I was too busy staring at Enzo as he took my coat and handed it to the attendant. I try to look nonchalant, but it’s not easy.
“They are custom Bernardaud chandeliers,” Enzo says when he catches me looking up to the ceiling. “I only know that because Hayden told me the last time we were here.” Other than the chairs, everything in here is white—the column, walls, tablecloths. And yeah, those chandeliers. Wow. Though I have no idea what, or who, Bernardaud is.
“I see.”
Enzo winks as if to say he didn’t know who, or what, Bernardaud was either.
“This way, Mr. DeLuca,” says the attendant.
The net worth of the people in this room is probably greater than that of most small countries. The guests all ooze wealth and importance. Which makes it feel even weirder that they’re watching Enzo walk by like he’s some kind of god. Some murmur their hellos. Others nudge their companions. I know he’s like a celebrity, especially after the Senate hearings and the other beer companies trying to get Angel, Inc. shut down. But to be stared at, by people who probably see celebrities all the time. It’s so completely out of the realm of my life experience.
“The Skybox is ready for you and your companion, sir. There will not be two more?”
The skybox?
“No, just us. Thank you.”
I want to ask why we’re leaving the main dining room, heading toward the kitchen. But I don’t need to—the corridor opens to reveal the most beautifully set table I’ve ever seen. Glass and silver and white ceramic dishes match the rest of the decor. It’s kind of like a booth, closed in on three sides. The third is a silver curtain that matches the silver velvet cushions. And the kitchen’s directly to the right of our booth.
I sit, watching through the glass as the head chef winks at me. At least, I suppose he’s the head chef. He looks like he’s in charge. I don’t notice until the maître d’ closes us in, drowning out the noise from the kitchen, but we are completely encased in glass. How did I not see that before?
“Enzo, this is incredible.”
He’s watching me, waiting for my reaction.
“You like it?”
He might be part businessman, part celebrity billionaire, but this is the Enzo I grew up with. He’s hopeful and boyish, with almost a hint of shyness.
“I love it.”
My eyes roam from the pictures on the wall toward the kitchen. “I can’t believe we can’t hear a thing. This is incredible.”
“It’s called the Skybox. Hayden’s dad took us here to celebrate when we were approved by the FDA. We all knew it was the start of something big.”
His words kindle something inside of me. Does that mean he thinks this thing between us is the start of something big? But there’s no chance to ask, if I even would—the glass door opens, admitting a man clad in a crisp white shirt and fancy vest.
“Good evening, Mr. DeLuca. Ms. Atwood.”
How does the waiter know my name?
“I would normally invite you to look at the wine list . . .” He smiles at Enzo as he lets the comment trail off.
“The wine list will be fine.” He takes it from the waiter. “Thank you. And sparkling water, please.”
“Very good, sir.”
The waiter leaves us to our glass box. I look down. Shit. I really should have refreshed my memory on utensils. You won’t find more than three—a fork, spoon, and knife—at any restaurant in Bridgewater. Maybe I could handle one extra utensil. But there’s as much silverware on our table as is probably lost in my couch at this very moment.
“It takes some getting used to.”
I look up. Caught.
“And really, most of them aren’t even necessary.”
Enzo’s mouth lifts in this special smile of his that has a way of making the beholder feel comfortable, and noticed, and valued, and I want to reach over all the fancy place settings and pull his handsome face toward me.
“When you look at me like that, Chari—”
“Pardon me.” The waiter opened the door to speak to us, and the full force of the bustling kitchen sounds reach us. It’s so strange. From silence to a sneak peek behind the scenes. I wonder what Enzo was about to say.
“Moscato d’Asti maybe?”
I realize the man standing with our waiter is talking to me.
“I know you don’t typically drink wine, but do you want to try something light?” Enzo asks.
I can’t actually imagine ordering a beer here. I could drink vodka, but what the hell? “Sure, I’ll try it.”
“May I suggest Ca’ d’Gal Vigna Vecchia for Ms. Atwood?”
It’s still freaking me out that everyone knows my name. This must be the sommelier. I nod, and Enzo orders a drink for himself too. The minute the door closes, I wait anxiously for Enzo to finish. But he seems to have forgotten what he was going to say.
“How exactly was I looking at you?” I prod, knowing the answer full well.
Enzo sits up straight and leans forward. Something about him has shifted. This isn’t the man I knew in childhood anymore. This is the confident billionaire who feels comfortable in a restaurant like this. And weirdly enough, he’s no less sexy or desirable. I’m not even sure which one I like better.