Dean is waiting by the host stand for me. He showered and changed after work, so he’s wearing a pale blue button-up shirt that brings out the blond in his hair. I think he shaved for a second time, because his face is perfectly smooth as he gives me a quick kiss hello. I can smell his aftershave and the industrial-strength antiseptic lingering on his hands and fingernails.
Dean could cosplay as a Ken doll without much trouble. He’s tall, fit, and handsome, with a cleft in his chin. He has a softness to his features that makes him look boyish, even though he’s almost forty.
He seems excited to see me, until he realizes that the man who followed me through the door is also following us to our table.
“Raylan Boone,” Raylan says, not waiting for me to introduce him. He grabs Dean’s hand and shakes it. “Nice to meet you.”
“Raylan is a security expert,” I explain. “My family hired him. He’s going to be shadowing me for the next few days.”
“Or weeks,” Raylan interjects.
“Okay . . . ” Dean says, returning Raylan’s handshake without quite the same level of enthusiasm. “Why, exactly?”
“There was an incident last night,” I say. “Nothing serious. But we thought it would be better to take precautions.”
I see Raylan’s amused gaze flit over to me, interested that I haven’t told Dean what happened, and clearly am not planning to tell him all the details now either.
“What kind of incident?” Dean says, frowning.
“Nothing serious,” I say breezily. “Let’s order our drinks.”
Dean and I sit across from each other at the small, square table. Raylan sits on the side, like our chaperone.
“Serious enough that you need a full-time bodyguard . . . ” Dean says. He looks over at Raylan warily, like he’s not sure how much to include him in the conversation. I’m sure he’s wary for other reasons, too. Despite the fact that Raylan has the haircut of a hillbilly and hasn’t shaved in weeks, he’s still objectively handsome. His blue eyes look especially bright next to his black hair and thick, dark eyebrows. His pointed incisors give him a wolfish look when he grins.
I could assure Dean that Raylan is also cocky, pushy, and completely not my type. But I’m not in the habit of assuring Dean of anything. It’s not my job to soothe his insecurities.
Raylan isn’t helping matters.
“Don’t worry, Doc,” he says. “I’ll keep Riona safe. And anything you two lovebirds wanna talk about . . . just pretend I’m not here. Just like doctor-patient confidentiality, what the bodyguard hears, he keeps to himself.”
He says it with that cheerful smirk on his face that makes you think he’s teasing you, no matter what words are coming out of his mouth. Dean frowns. He hates being teased even more than I do.
The waiter comes to take our drink orders. I get a vodka soda, Dean a glass of wine.
“Just water, thanks,” Raylan says.
“Still or sparkling?” the waiter asks.
“Whatever’s free and cold.”
“You can have a drink,” I say to Raylan.
“Nah,” he says. “I’m on the clock.”
“There is no clock,” I tell him.
“On the job, then.”
I don’t know why it irritates me that he won’t have a drink. I guess because I’d prefer to think of him as an unnecessary precaution, not an actual professional bodyguard.
Dean, seeing that he’s not going to get the information he wants out of me, switches to questioning Raylan directly.
“So . . . how do you know the Griffins?” he asks.
“I don’t,” Raylan says. “Riona and I met through Dante Gallo.”
That doesn’t help. Dean isn’t the biggest fan of Dante. They’ve met twice before—after which Dante said, “Yeah, he’s nice. Bit high on himself.” And Dean said, “Do you usually stay friends with your clients after you get them acquitted of murder?”
“Do you, ah, work with Dante?” Dean asks with a note of nervousness.
“We were in the military together,” Raylan replies.
“Oh,” Dean says, sounding relieved. “I considered enlisting, way back when. So I could get med school paid for.”
“Hm,” Raylan says blandly. “You don’t say.”
“I couldn’t be a soldier, though. All that toilet scrubbing and ‘drop and give me twenty’ shit. Guess I don’t like following orders,” Dean says, with a laugh.
I look over at Raylan, to see how he’ll respond to that nice little piece of condescension.
Raylan just grins, his teeth white against his dark stubble and his tanned skin. “Guess you’d rather be the general in your operating room, huh?” he says.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Dean says, smiling back at him. He doesn’t seem to notice the glint in Raylan’s eyes, which isn’t entirely friendly.
“ ‘Course, if you fuck up at your job, the worst you’re gonna do is kill some granny on your table,” Raylan says casually. “You don’t have to worry about watching all your colleagues, the anesthesiologists and nurses and other doctors, get captured and tortured and have their heads cut off. Or get blown to pieces right next to you. You don’t have to worry about dying yourself.”
“No . . . ” Dean says, smile fading. “But that doesn’t mean—”
“I guess that’s why in the military, we start small with scrubbing toilets,” Raylan says. “Then we move up to making our beds. Then we proceed through drills and training, and practice missions, before we ever head out in the field. It’s incremental progress. You get to know your brothers, and they get to know you. And nobody is promoted to a leadership position when they’re too arrogant to follow instructions themselves. Because that’s how it works when the whole team’s life is on the line. Nobody’s gonna serve under some shithead they don’t even like, let alone respect.”
Raylan is smiling pleasantly the whole time he’s speaking. He keeps that same friendly southern drawl. But somehow I become aware of his large, strong hands folded on the tabletop. And the width of his shoulders, under that flannel shirt.
Dean seems to become cognizant of the same thing—that Raylan is a trained soldier. Not to mention a good two or three inches taller than Dean.
Dean swallows hard. “Right,” he mutters. “We should probably order. The kitchen can be slow here . . . ”
“What should I get?” Raylan asks me, not bothering with the heavy leather menu and its array of choices spelled out in fancy scrolled print.
“Do you like steak?” I say.
“ ‘Course I do. What’s not to like?”
“Well, they’re famous for their ribeye.”
“I thought that cabbie said seafood was their specialty.”
I shrug. “He also thought Columbus Drive was the best way to get over here.”
“Alright, you convinced me.” Raylan grins. “Cabbie doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.”
Dean motions to the waiter.
“Go ahead,” I say to the men. “I’m still looking.”
“Ribeye, please,” Raylan says. “Bloody, with a baked potato.”
“I’ll have the chicken and capers,” Dean says virtuously. He hands his menu to the waiter and winks at me. “I plan to live past a hundred.”
“I’ll trade a decade or two for steak,” Raylan says, totally unconcerned.
I can’t help smiling a little. “I’ll have the ribeye, too,” I say to the waiter.
Dean looks betrayed.
I shrug. “I’m hungry.”
When the waiter leaves us alone again, an awkward silence falls over the table. Dean tries a new conversational tactic, which I suspect is designed to exclude Raylan.
“I saw the Art Institute is showing an exhibit of El Greco,” he says. “I got tickets for us.”
That actually does excite me. “Thank you,” I say. “I’d love to go.”
Dean looks pleased with himself. Not content with that victory, he says, “I guess we’ll need a ticket for your bodyguard, too. Are you a fan of painting, Raylan?”
“Not really,” Raylan says, shrugging.
“You don’t like Renaissance art?” Dean smirks.
Raylan takes a piece of bread from the basket in the middle of the table and spreads a generous layer of butter.
“Well, El Greco isn’t really Renaissance, is he?” he says, taking a large bite of his bread.
“What do you mean?” Dean frowns.
“Well . . . ” Raylan chews and swallows. “The way he stretched out his people and made ‘em all dramatic. Wouldn’t you call that Mannerism?”
Now I really can’t help laughing, even though it turns the foolish look on Dean’s face to a downright scowl.
Raylan shrugs. “We got books in Tennessee,” he says blandly. “Even a museum or two.”
The steak comes to the table on sizzling, five-hundred-degree platters, drenched in butter and parsley. The two-pound baked potatoes are piled with sour cream and hunks of bacon. The scent of grilled meat is heavenly.
Raylan and I attack our food like ravenous dogs. I haven’t eaten a thing since coffee that morning. The rich, fatty rib-eye is soft enough to cut with a fork. It melts away on my tongue, intensely satisfying.
Dean cuts his chicken breast into small cubes, sour-faced.
I can see Raylan wants to tease him about his order, but he refrains.
Feeling just a little bit bad for Dean, since my own meal is so damned delicious, I ask him about his surgery that afternoon.
Dean perks up, launching into a long and detailed description of the complicated thoracotomy that was brought to his hospital specifically for him, because he’s the only surgeon in the city with a 100% success rate on that particular procedure.
On that topic, the rest of the dinner passes by.
“Does anyone want dessert?” I ask the two men. “Or another drink?”
“I’m stuffed,” Raylan says.
“Me too,” Dean says, less truthfully. He only ate half his chicken. I think he’s had enough of this strange date.
“I’ll get the check,” I say.
“I already paid it,” Raylan says.
“What? When?” I demand.
“I gave the waiter my card last time he came around.”
“You’re not supposed to buy my meals,” I inform him. “If anything, you should be getting reimbursed for yours.”
Raylan shrugs.
I know he was probably trying to avoid the awkwardness of Dean feeling obligated to pay for all three of us. But Dean seems more annoyed by this outcome, where Raylan has shown him up in foresight and chivalry.
“Let’s get going then,” Dean says brusquely. “Are you coming back to my place, Riona?”
That’s our usual routine, the one or two nights a week that we meet for a proper date. But I don’t really see how that’s going to work with Raylan tagging along after me everywhere I go. Is Raylan going to lurk in Dean’s living room, while Dean and I head upstairs to the bedroom to knock boots?
“I think I’d better not,” I say, with a glance toward the obvious impediment.
Dean gives a huff of frustration. “Of course,” he says. “I’m leaving then. I assume Raylan can help you call a cab.”
With surprising consideration, Raylan hangs back so I can have a little privacy walking out with Dean.
“How long is this going to go on?” Dean demands.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he says. “What’s the reason for this? Because if he’s some old boyfriend, or—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap. “I was attacked last night.”
“You . . . what?” Dean’s expression changes from annoyance to alarm. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“I don’t want anyone making a fuss. Especially not you. But that’s why he’s following me around for now.”
“Are you alright?” Dean asks, more gently.
“I’m fine,” I say. “You’ll just have to be patient with a third wheel for a while.”
Dean sighs. “Alright,” he says, kissing me softly on the forehead. I really don’t like when he does that, but I tolerate it because I know this wasn’t the most pleasant evening for him.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say.
“Please do.”
I watch him jump in his Porsche and speed off in the direction of his house up in Streeterville.
I can feel Raylan standing behind me, close but not so close that he’s towering over me.
“Back home, then?” he says.
“No.” I shake my head. “Let’s go meet up with my brother. I want to know what he’s found out about that diver. No offense, but I don’t want to make this a permanent arrangement.”
“Sure.” Raylan smiles. “I get it. I spoil the romantic ambiance. I bet Dean is a real charmer when it’s just the two of you.”
There’s no edge to his words. If I’d only just met him, I’d think he meant it sincerely enough.
But already, I’m getting to know Raylan enough that I catch the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He doesn’t like Dean. And he doesn’t give a damn if I know it.
