“Miss Porter will have a champagne cocktail, and I’ll have Blanton’s. A generous pour, please.”
My expression must betray my distaste for the words champagne cocktail, because the vibrator jumps to life for a second, zapping me like I’m a dog with an electric collar. I don’t care what Gray says about it. That’s what it feels like to me.
When the waiter walks away, I smile adoringly at Gray. “I know a champagne cocktail is dainty and ladylike, but the next time you order me an aperitif, remember how much I like Blanton’s too, darlin’.”
The vibrator springs to life, this time for longer than the last. One more time, and I’m going to pull it out, right here in the fancy-ass dining room, and drop it in his Blanton’s.
“I appreciate you speaking so lovingly. But I’m in a wolfish mood tonight, Delilah. It’s best you keep your wits about you.”
I make every effort not to roll my eyes. The pretending to be something I’m not is so much more difficult than I imagined. If Gray and I were at Tallulah’s Bar, or even in the apartment, sharing a meal would feel more natural, the way it did at the beach. But a dinner with pressed linen and more forks than I own makes it awkward, even in a familiar place.
Fortunately, Gray is a master at small talk. And I dust off my Southern manners and partake of the bullshit until the white-gloved waiter returns. He places small bowls of warm nuts, olives, and cheddar crackers on the table, along with our drinks. Gray’s bourbon is over a large ice cube with a strip of orange peel lying on the surface. It makes my mouth water. I glance at my drink. In comparison, it looks—better than nothing.
When the waiter walks away, Gray lifts his glass toward me. “Have a sip.” I’m surprised he’s sharing. But I suppose that’s what couples do. “Go on. See if it’s as good as you remember.”
I lift the tumbler while he watches attentively, a small sparkle in his eyes. “Better than I remember,” I reply in a low, husky voice, as though the whiskey primed my throat for sex.
“Take another sip, just to be sure.”
“Mmmm. It smells like vanilla caramels,” I say, bringing the tumbler to my nose, before taking another sip.
“There’s nothing I’d like more than to indulge you, Blue Eyes. Let me.”
The flush creeps up my neck, and I search for a distraction. “I love these little crackers. The chef puts cayenne in them.”
Gray takes a long drink of bourbon, but doesn’t take his eyes off me. The growing flush moves from pleasantly warm to toasty. If he hasn’t already noticed the pink stain on my skin, he’ll surely see it now.
“Tell me about your day,” he says, popping an olive into his mouth.
“My day.” Such a perfectly civilized question, but wrought with so much angst and turmoil. “Aside from Gabby when we meet for supper or a drink, I don’t think anyone’s ever asked about my day.”
“Hmmm.” He scoops up another olive. “Never?”
I shake my head. “I’ve never thought about it before, but I don’t think so.”
“Well, I’m asking, and I’m going to keep asking, at least for the next few weeks.”
The next few weeks—then it’s over. Then you’ll be free of him, Delilah. It doesn’t give me the jolt of happiness I would expect. “Busy. The day was busy, although I accomplished nothing.” It’s true. I’ve never had such a busy but unproductive day. “The yoga was challenging. But you already know that. Have I thanked you yet for leading me to believe Mel was a white girl with a scrawny ass?”
Gray laughs.
“I don’t think Mel is that impressed with me, but he’s going to let me incorporate martial arts and kickboxing into our routine.”
Gray raises his brow, offering me a cheddar cracker. “Really?”
“If he’s satisfied that I’m committing to my yoga practice, on my own time. Don’t worry, he’s not letting me off easily.”
“How did it feel to run on a treadmill in the afternoon?”
“Not anywhere near as satisfying, if you want to know the truth. But better than nothing. Kind of like my champagne cocktail.”
The edge of his mouth quirks, and I flash him a small, feigned smile, which he ignores.
“How did it go with Mira?”
“I liked her. A lot. You were right. She’s a font of information. Apparently, women don’t run outside in Amadi. Not on the public streets anyway.”
“Is that right?” He brings the amber liquid to his lips and empties the tumbler.
“That’s what the yoga is about. You’re preparing me.”
He scoffs, but the gleam in his eyes betrays him. “Pity. I’m disappointed you didn’t continue to believe I’m a monster in that regard for a bit longer.”
Before I can respond, there’s a loud thud at the entrance to the restaurant, like something heavy fell over, and staff are scurrying out front.
“Excuse me,” Gray says, getting up.
I follow him out, and close the French doors behind me so that guests can continue to enjoy dinner.
Laurel is on the floor with the hostess stand on top of her.
Gray shoos everyone away, and with little effort he pulls the stand upright, then lowers himself to his haunches, beside her. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she gasps. “I’m so sorry.” She starts to sit up, and then lies back down again. “Mr. Wilder, I’m so nauseous, I’m afraid if I lift my head, I’ll be sick.”
Poor woman. She sounds mortified.
“Get a bag, or something, in case she vomits,” Gray tells the busboy loitering a few feet away. Laurel drapes an arm over her eyes. “What happened?” Gray asks. His voice is gentle and filled with concern.
When I worked at Wildflower, Gray was always fair-minded. Not just toward me, but toward others who worked here too. He was demanding and exacting about everything at the club, but he was also generous and kind, especially with the long-term employees who had demonstrated their loyalty over the years. Laurel hasn’t been here a year, but he’s clearly fond of her.
“I got dizzy and held onto the stand. When I fell, it came with me. I’ll be fine as soon as my head stops spinning. It’s just the heat.”
The heat? It’s pretty cool in here.
“Does it hurt anywhere?”
“Only my pride,” she says with her arm still shielding her eyes.
The busboy returns back with a large disposable container.
“You hold this,” Gray instructs, wrapping Laurel’s fingers around the container. “Don’t be afraid to use it if you need to. I’m going to carry you to my office and we’ll call your husband and an ambulance. Hold on.” He lifts her off the floor, and I follow behind, through the kitchen, to the rear of the building.
Trippi appears out of nowhere and stops me at the entrance to Gray’s office. “She needs a little privacy,” he explains, in his own terse way. That’s how it always is with him. Short and never sweet. No one ever accused the man of talking their ear off. That’s for sure. “This is a personnel matter,” he adds, when I don’t immediately back off.
I’m not prepared to make a stink, and I’m certainly not going to bother Gray. Plus, Laurel is entitled to some privacy. “Of course. Let me know if I can help in any way.”