The Living Room of the Rich
Just thinking about having to meet the yacht dealer made me nauseous. I was more nervous than I used to be before some brutal oral exam back in the day. What the hell are you even supposed to talk about with a rich older man? Money? That satin blouse was such a stupid idea. I was going to sweat through it so badly it would be embarrassing.
And as far as timing went, this whole thing couldn’t have come at a worse moment. It wasn’t enough that I already slept with my fists clenched during the few miserable hours I managed to scrape together — now I could also throw several valuable hours straight into the trash because Thessa was a selfish cow. Hopefully the guy she was dating would have a good influence on her and turn her into some sweet, docile little lamb. Or he’d run for his life like all the others had.
Ryan finally called Wednesday morning. At first I thought I’d be a little sharp with him, maybe make some comment about his disappearance. But the second he asked if I was free, I wanted him so badly that every other thought vanished from my head.
Luckily, only a few minutes later we were already on the couch, having frantic, hurried sex. As it turned out, he was in a hurry. Still, before he left, we stood kissing deeply in the doorway, and somehow that felt just as good as the sex had.
I’d thought about telling him I wasn’t that kind of woman. That he shouldn’t think he could just stop by for a quick round whenever he felt like it.
Then I changed my mind.
It had worked pretty damn well for me too.
And honestly, I didn’t even mind that only minutes later he was already hurrying down the stairs. I’d feel guilty about it later. Right now, though, this felt exactly right.
Once my nerves had settled enough for me to start getting ready, the nausea disappeared. My stomach, of course, stayed tightly knotted just so I could continue feeling gloriously alive.
I remembered a video where some girl stuck panty liners into the armpits of her blouse to absorb sweat, but I quickly pushed the thought away. The last thing I needed was to spend the whole lunch worrying about one falling out.
A panty liner.
Out of my blouse.
In an elegant restaurant.
As expected, Ben arrived to pick me up impeccably dressed, with a fresh haircut and a luxury car. The soft pale leather seat swallowed me instantly. Honestly, after that I barely cared where he was taking me.
“Just so you know, the place we’re going only has a few tables,” he said in that velvety voice of his.
Great, I thought. Every swallow is going to echo through the silence.
I nodded as if I appreciated the information instead of feeling panic slowly beginning to take over.
“The owner’s a good friend of mine,” he continued in his smooth baritone.
I could easily imagine him narrating nature documentaries. We’d spoken on the phone plenty of times before, and we’d crossed paths briefly at the office, but being this physically close to him felt completely different. Breathing in the creamy yet unmistakably masculine scent of his cologne. Despite being well into his forties, he was undeniably masculine. Maybe when I’m older, men like this will actually become my type.
What I couldn’t quite figure out, though, was whether he was handsome.
The restaurant looked more like a rich man’s living room than a place people actually came to eat. There were only five tables, surrounded by comfortable beige and ivory upholstered chairs you immediately wanted to sink into. The muted golden lighting made everything feel soft and expensive. The colors of my outfit fit perfectly into the scene. Eternal gratitude to Adele for understanding exactly what would work.
Even though every table was occupied, nobody looked up when we walked in. Personally, I absolutely would have stared at the new arrivals, because that sort of thing is interesting. Apparently rich people aren’t interested in anything outside themselves.
On the bright side, nobody gave me the suspicious once-over either: This girl clearly doesn’t belong here.
Ben didn’t even touch the menu. My own hand instinctively moved toward the white leather-bound booklet, but halfway there I stopped myself and pretended I was brushing invisible lint off the cover instead. I had no idea what to make of it.
“My friend,” Ben purred to a man around his age who had just approached the table. “Let me introduce you two.”
He gestured toward me.
I shook the man’s hand, and although I tried to focus on his face, my eyes kept drifting back to the popped collar of his pale blue polo shirt. Why do men wear those damn things like that? Is it some kind of status symbol for rich people? Naturally, I forgot his name immediately.
“So what did you make for us?” Ben asked him.
My eyebrows shot up instantly. Horrified, I lowered my head so they wouldn’t notice my reaction. I thought I might disappear straight into the floor.
But seriously, how was I supposed to know he was the chef?
“Your favorite, of course,” he replied. “Melt-in-your-mouth veal tenderloin with caramelized onion cream and rosemary potatoes.”
“Mmm,” Ben groaned with his eyes closed. Then he looked at me.
“You’ve definitely never had anything like this before, Emily. Nobody handles veal better than he does. Actually, I’d say nobody handles anything better than he does. He’s a genius. You’ll see.”
I nodded with an appreciative smile. It wasn’t difficult. Honestly, it was a huge relief that the name of the dish was entirely understandable to me. At least I no longer had to panic about not understanding a single word on the menu.
“Would that be alright for you too?” the popped-collar chef asked.
“Perfect, thank you.”
“We have fresh homemade lemonade. Can I bring you some while you wait?” he asked, looking at Ben.
Ben nodded enthusiastically, and I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t asking me first.
“Excellent. I’ll send the waiter over to take your drink order.”
Wait, what?
I was stunned all over again. Thankfully, this time I managed to control my expression better. I didn’t even flinch. Quietly, I took a deep breath, leaned back, and slowly exhaled. I decided I’d just let the whole thing go and try to drift along with it.
At that point, who cared who placed what in front of me.
Sometimes a traditionally dressed waiter appeared at the table, sometimes the chef who looked like he’d escaped from a fashion magazine. They paid obsessive attention to every tiny detail.
Ben must be important.
“Do you like sailing?” Ben asked between two bites of genuinely melt-in-your-mouth veal.
Heat spread slowly but mercilessly across my face.
“I don’t know, I’ve never…” My voice cracked.
As if I should somehow be ashamed that I’d never had the opportunity.
I was angry with myself.
Ben slowly shook his head.
“Well, that simply can’t continue. Once the catalog is finished and the exhibition is over, I’m taking you sailing, alright?”
It sounded far more like a statement than a question.
I think this man genuinely believes he gets along with everyone. He never doubts that people like him or that he can instantly connect with anybody. It probably never even crosses his mind that someone might not want to make plans with him.
Then again, I honestly couldn’t think of a single reason not to go sailing with him.
Once I relaxed, I actually started feeling as though I were having lunch with an old friend.
Thank God he didn’t bring up the catalog again. He didn’t ask how it was going.
It would’ve been funny to casually say:
“Oh, nowhere yet. But I’ll steal bits of time from my other project and maybe I’ll manage it. With a little luck.”
Then take a huge sip of the famous homemade lemonade overflowing with strawberries and mint.