“Kerr for two,” Ian instructs.
The maître d’s hair is a mass of curls, and I can’t stop staring at them as they bounce atop his head when he bends down to check his reservation book. “It’ll be thirty minutes.” He gestures us toward the crush at the bar. Ian doesn’t move and stares at the Harry Styles impersonator with a raised eyebrow. The look is one that clearly says, “We aren’t waiting thirty minutes,” and it flusters the host. He brings up his hands but before another word or gesture is delivered, a loud voice from Ian’s right interrupts.
“Ian Kerr, so thrilled to have you with us tonight.” The voice belongs to a slender, bald man whose pants are so tight I wonder if he can actually sit. He’s sockless and the shoes he’s wearing are bright blue and pointy. “Travis, what do we have?”
He looks down at the screen and suggests, “Private room?”
Ian shakes his head. “No, I want to see how it runs.”
The newcomer nods his head multiples times, so many that he looks like a bobblehead. “Of course, right this way.”
He leads us to a corner booth that is big enough to seat several people. I slide in, stopping at the center, and Ian follows, settling right next to me. His arm stretches across the back of the banquette. “I’m Donatello, and I’m the assistant manager. We were so excited when we received your reservation. The chef has prepared a special degustation for you tonight, and we have an assortment of wines to serve so that you can see the extensive cellar we keep. Our sommelier will be here shortly to describe the sensory journey we will take you on—”
Ian holds up his hand and Donatello stops talking immediately. “The degustation is fine but, please, no other special treatment tonight. As I said, I want to see how this place runs.”
Donatello squeezes his hands together, and his cheeriness seems a little forced. “Of course. Of course.”
I want to lean forward and reassure Donatello that Ian’s always this high-handed, but all I can do is offer the manager a sincere smile and thank you.
“He’s afraid. Be nice,” I warn when the manager wanders off.
Ian looks taken aback. “I didn’t realize you wanted a thirty minute dissertation on the bouquets of wines and their interplay with each little course we’ll be served.” He raises his hand to bring Donatello back, but I drag it down.
“No, just be nicer. He’s trying to impress you.”
He sighs but the next time the manager returns, Ian smiles and says he’s doing a nice job. Donatello floats away. “Not so hard, is it?” I tease.
Ian tugs at my ponytail and runs a hand down the ridges of my spine. “I’m already impressed. Let’s go home now.”
“No way, I put on makeup. Besides, this place is amazing.”
I have lived in the city my whole life and I have seen every street and alley, but tonight the whole of fashionable New York is on display. And I can’t stop looking. Everyone looks amazing. Perhaps it is the dim light or the reflections of the copper plating on the wall, but there are people looking fabulous in tight suits and even tighter pants and that was just the men. A thin, tall brunette with hair down to her butt is wearing a ball gown and a tube top. Two tables down, a man is wearing a leather vest and a collar.
“I wish you could see yourself right now. Your eyes are so big,” he whispers into my ear, and the sound travels all the way to my belly.
“Tiny,” he says, and I can sense that he wants me to look at him. His hand reaches out, strokes my jaw, and then turns my face so that we’re looking at each other. We’re so close on this banquette that I could lean forward and be kissing him. The thought makes me lick my lips, and Ian’s gaze drops from my eyes to my lips. When he flicks his gaze back upward, it’s filled with lust and tenderness. If it wasn’t for the waiter, who coughs to get our attention, I would have grabbed Ian’s head and dragged him under the table with me.
Discomfited, I try to interject some distance between us and gather some decorum. The waiter, in a white-buttoned coat and gray pants, sets down two porcelain soup spoons filled with tuna carpaccio, a sliver of potato, and a shitake mushroom.
“I don’t even know your middle name,” I blurt out.
“Ian Kincaid Kerr.” A hand curls around the back of my neck while his other hand raises the spoon to my mouth. I swallow it down and try to hold back the moan of delight. “That good, eh?” He swallows his own bite and winks at me.
“Sounds really Scottish,” I say faintly. Another dish comes by and Ian feeds that to me as well.
“Ach, dinnae ken, my wee lassie, by my accent?”
I giggle. “That's pretty terrible.”
“Well, now you know I'm bad at accents. How about you?”
“I’ve never tried speaking in an accent, so let’s assume I’m terrible, too.” His hand is so warm that I want to rub my face against his wrist. The way that his body is canted protectively around me makes me feel like we are in a private room, all alone. The whole of my body is liquefied by the way that he’s feeding me each bite of food, his hand never moving from behind my neck. Despite the crowded restaurant and the incessant chatter of the patrons, we are in a bubble of leather, delicious food, and heady wine. It’s intoxicating.
“So I should have invited you to dinner rather than drinks.”
We both look up to see Richard Howe standing there with a woman on his arm—an older woman. Her age is indeterminate. She's in that New York socialite age range between mid-30s and late 50s. Plastic surgery can create a façade of youth that masks one's true age for many years. However old she is, the woman is beautiful. She has a delicate, fragile air.
Her body is thin, and she wears a delicate lace sheath that emphasizes her fine bone structure. Around her face, expertly coiffed golden hair falls in soft waves. But the translucency of her hands reminds me of my mother and, ultimately, it is those that give her away. There are age spots which she's tried to cover with a multitude of rings and the backs of her hands show prominent veins, thin skin, and dots of pigmentation.
Under my awkward gaze, her hands curl and she ducks them underneath the table. I give her a tentative smile, but my untoward attention to her hands has immediately marked me as the enemy.
“Wife.” Ian mutters in my ear. Tossing his cloth napkin on the table, he half rises to shake Richard’s hand and then his companion’s.
I hide my disgruntlement at the interruption behind a big—but fake—smile for Richard and his wife.