It’s just dinner, right?
Hell, who am I kidding?
My last date barely split the bill; Tristan Kane wants to date me so badly he’s drawing up NDAs. It might not be the most romantic gesture, but it is enough to convince me to take a leap of faith. That, and I’m so sexually frustrated, I might start humping his leg like a dog in the next Garcia meeting.
“It only looks good if I don’t move my head.” I study my face dubiously in the mirror. “When I tilt my head, it looks streaky.”
Megan is trying to contour my face based on instructions from a YouTube video. So far, she has used half of my sixty available minutes to get ready.
“I’m slightly regretting going straight into the advanced sculpting technique with multiple hues,” she murmurs as she adds yet another shade of grey powder to my cheeks. “It’ll look great in the end though.”
I disagree. I look like a freaking Picasso painting.
She tilts my face from side to side.
“What now?” I ask suspiciously.
“I need to add more layers.”
“You just keep adding layers?” I say doubtfully. “When do I have enough layers? I’m starting to resemble a stale layer cake.”
“Shall I give you bigger eyebrows as well?” she asks, taking my jaw in her hand and rolling my head around. I’ve never seen her look so serious.
“He only saw me a few hours ago.” I pull back from her grasp. “Won’t he notice if my eyebrows grow in size?”
“No chance.” Megan scoffs. “Men don’t notice these things. The guy I dated last year, Seanie, didn’t notice when I got my eyebrows tattooed.”
I shake my head. “No, I won’t mess with the formula. He seems okay with my existing eyebrows.”
“I’m so glad you finally decided to give him a chance,” she says.
I sigh. “I just can’t believe I let it get so far in the elevator. I’m mortified. But no other guy has gone to this much effort to win me over.”
She flicks a brush up and down the middle of my nose to make it slimmer. Apparently.
“Maybe contouring only looks good in photos?” I frown.
She studies me for a long moment, tilting my head in all different directions to inspect cheeks, nose, forehead, and chin with meticulous detail. “You’re right,” she says solemnly. “Take it off. Take it all off. I think we need to start again.”
“Take it all off?” I glare at her. “Bloody hell, Megan, I don’t have time to do my whole face again.” I grab wet wipes from the dressing table and rub them on my cheeks. Thick grey powder deposits onto the wipes.
“Maybe we’ll stick to the natural look,” she suggests. “He liked you in Greece, and you barely put a brush through your hair there.”
“Fine. Just make me look less like the undead, please. Remove all the grey lines from my cheeks.”
“You’re very on edge.” She chuckles, massaging my cheek with makeup remover. “Admit it. You’ve been pining after this man since Greece.”
I exhale heavily. I can’t deny it.
“Who cares about your face? More importantly, are you ready down there?” She makes eyes at my crotch.
I roll my eyes, but I am so ready. Landing strip prepared for landing. Of course, I’m not planning to sleep with him. It’s just in case.
“It’s just dinner.” I brush her comment off. “He only wants me because I’m resisting him. He’ll get bored.”
“Are you sure about that?” She applies a tinted moisturiser to my face.
I hope I’m wrong.
“That’s better.” She nods at her handiwork then pushes my dress down past my right shoulder. It’s an oversized jumper.
“Why did you do that?” I frown.
“I read in an article that bare shoulders remind men of bare breasts,” she muses. “It must be to do with the shape.”
I’m not convinced. “Couldn’t you say that argument about knees then?” I ask sceptically. “You are seriously saying I show him a bit of shoulder socket rolling, and he’s putty in my hands?”
“Fine, don’t take my expert dating advice.” She tuts. “But you need to hone your flirting skills. At Venus Envy, you were like a viper with fangs out anytime a bloke came near you.”
I narrow my eyes. We said we wouldn’t talk about that night again. “I’m not sure I’m capable of flirting. My Crohn’s disease is playing up like it always does when I’m nervous.” I chew my lips. “I hope I don’t spend the whole date in the bathroom.” How many dates do you wait until you tell someone you have a dodgy bowel?
There’s a knock on the bedroom door and Frank the Shagger pops his head in.
I glare at him. I still haven’t forgiven him for mistaking my bedroom for the bathroom.
“Ah, come on, don’t look at me like that,” he says. “You’re still huffing with me over a little mistake? I said I would do your cleaning slot for four weeks.”
“That’s only useful if you actually clean,” I reply dryly. “Hiding things in cupboards is not cleaning.”
“Says who? Anyway, I came to tell you, there’s a bloke here to see you. He looks fancy.”
I turn to Megan in horror. “He’s twenty minutes early!”
Frank shrugs. “He’s in the living room.”
My spine jerks upright. “You let him into the living room?”
He gives me a blank stare. “Yeah, why not?”
“No, no, no!” I leap up, trying to locate my shoes.
Locating the second shoe under the bed, I barge past Frank and race down the stairs with Megan hot on my heels. I fire open the living room door.
“Tristan!” I greet him, flustered. “I –” I stop talking.
Oh.
He looks devastatingly handsome. I can’t even put my finger on why. He is leaning against the wall, looking completely out of place and too big for the room. He’s wearing jeans and a shirt that strains against his wide chest. He looks completely different than he did this afternoon. More like the Tristan I met in Mykonos.
One of his eyebrows rise as he takes a slow step forward. “Elly, you look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I say breathily.
His gaze falls to the cut of my breasts in my dress, trailing a line down my stomach to my bare legs so slowly and purposefully, I have to look down to check I’m wearing underwear.
Someone clears their throat from the sofa. I turn to see my army of housemates watching us.
Did they all have to make their presence known at this particular moment? Three of Frank’s friends are sprawled out across the sofa and the floor, watching what appears to be bear attacks streaming from YouTube. The kitchen-hogging couple have formed a brass band with pots and pans, as they do every night. Their washing is drying all over the living room. Isn’t there some sort of etiquette about not drying your underwear in a house-share communal area?
I eye Rafal’s friend, Martina, suspiciously. She doesn’t live here, yet I see her here every night. Has she moved in on the sly?
Well done flashes in her eyes at me as she gives Tristan a greedy once-over.
“Let’s get out of here,” I mumble awkwardly, trying to ignore the gawking eyeballs. What I mean is, get the hell out of here before any of my housemates say anything to show me up.
Megan hands me my coat and bag, giving me a conspicuous wink, and I shepherd him out the front door.
Nerves clutch my stomach as he walks me to the Aston Martin where George is waiting in the driver’s seat.
George gives me a polite nod.
“Interesting bunch of tenants,” Tristan observes, arching a brow. “It was like separate groups of people taking up space in the living room but ignoring each other.”
“Welcome to living in the real London.”
He opens the car door to let me in, then pauses to take my jaw in his hand.
My breath hitches as I wait to be kissed.
He inches closer, his breath hot on my face.
God, the suspense.
He tilts my face to the side. “You have a few smudges on your cheek. Are they pencil marks?”
Damn you, Megan, and your epic contour fail. “Must be pencil marks, yup,” I mutter, stepping out of his hold to rub my cheek violently.
***
As we approach Clapham, I start to get excited. Really excited. A reservation to this place is gold dust. I would have said yes to the devil himself if he offered me dinner at Asha’s, the most coveted restaurant in London. It recently snagged the third Michelin star and was the driving force behind the rush of celebrity sightings south of the Thames.
The fluttery feeling swirls in my stomach. Never a good thing for a bowel disease sufferer visiting a lavish restaurant with the casting member of their raunchy dreams.
What if I’m not dressed fancy enough for this place? I’m wearing a flowing dress and dressy sneakers. Sneakers are acceptable now so long as you don’t actually do sports in them, right?
Tristan leans over and takes my hand. “Elly, tonight, I want you to forget I own Madison. I’m just the guy you met on holidays. A guy that has given you no reason not to trust him. Can you do that?”
I look back into those intense eyes and read a hint of vulnerability there. “Yes,” I answer and I mean it.
We pull up outside the unassuming grey doorway on a quiet side street just off Clapham High Street. You would be forgiven for mistaking it for a warehouse rather than an exclusive and hideously expensive high-toned French restaurant.
As we get out of the car, a hostess appears from out of nowhere. She flashes a predatory smile at Tristan and puts her hand on his lower back, ignoring me. “Mr. Kane,” she purrs. “Right this way.”
My hackles rise.
Taking my hand in his, he leads me down the stairs lit only by candlelight to the restaurant in the basement.
It’s not often a restaurant makes me horny, but this is the sexiest damn restaurant I’ve ever set foot in.
I enter first, his hand on the small of my back as he follows behind me. It’s hard to miss the heads turning at each table as we walk through the dimly lit basement. Whether they recognise him or are just blown away by the broad-shouldered, ridiculously handsome bloke, it’s hard to tell. If he notices the attention, he doesn’t let on.
I scan the sea of heads and see some vaguely familiar faces. Is that guy from The Apprentice? More importantly, I make a mental note of where the toilets are.
We stop at dark red velvet curtains.
“This way, sir.” Eye-fucking Tristan, the hostess pulls up the curtains to reveal a door underneath and pushes it open. We walk into a room that is all darkness, mirrors and candles with a single table for two in the middle.
I look around, bewildered. ‘Are we the only ones in here?”
“The private room is by request,” Tristan explains casually as we are led to the table.
He pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down.
“Let me take your coat, sir,” the hostess says in her phone-sex voice. In the process of pushing his coat down and off his shoulders, she gives him an unnecessary rubdown that airport security staff would be proud of.
He pulls out the chair opposite, inches it closer to mine, then sits down.
“How did you get a table here last minute?” I ask as three waiters fuss over us, pouring water and fluffing napkins. ‘Isn’t it notorious for being booked up months in advance?”
He leans back in his seat, his legs spreading so that our knees touch under the table.
“I own the restaurant with Danny.”
I pinch my eyes shut in confusion. “You own…this place?”
“Yup.”
I’m rendered speechless for a moment. I look around the room lit entirely by candlelight. “The building insurance must be astronomical.”
He lets out a loud laugh.
“Christ, Tristan, we are worlds apart.” I look at him doubtfully. “I don’t even own my own car yet. The only thing Megan and I can afford to buy together is a bottle of wine. We aren’t on an even keel here.”
“It’s okay.” He winks. “Next time you can cook me dinner.”
“Champagne, miss?” Two glasses of champagne materialise in front of us.
“Yes, thank you.” I smile politely. The wall-to-ceiling mirror lit with candles creates the illusion that there is an army of servers serving us. Will they be here the whole time, watching and listening to us? The room is so echoey with just the two of us.
Tristan raises his glass, and I clink mine with his. I take a sip, and it’s delicious. It tastes expensive.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Tristan comments. “Clean, crisp…you can really taste the honey, can’t you?”
That’s nice. My only requirement with champagne is that it doesn’t leave me bent over with trapped wind. I make a mental note to learn some swanky phrases about champagne.
I nod, making a deep hmmm sound.
“The French chef is known for his creative style of cooking.” He grins as he follows my gaze to the menu. ‘It’s why we chose him. Some of the dishes aren’t for the faint-hearted.”
Escargots. They’re quite nice, I can handle those.
Sauteed frog legs. Mmm, guess I could give one a go.
Tagine of Goat! I could pretend it’s chicken.
“Tartare de Cheval?” I say loudly. “Is that…”
Holy Mary, Mother of –
“Horse tartare,” he finishes, giving me a wicked smile.
I swallow hard. I’ll have to subtly check my phone to see if these things trigger irritable bowel symptoms.
“Anything can taste amazing if it’s cooked right.” His eyes twinkle. ‘I’m very adventurous. You were warned.”
Are we still talking about food?
“I ordered last time,’ I say, feeling brave. I close the menu. ‘You have carte blanche to order whatever you want for both of us. Except for the horse. Anything but horse.’
He grins and beckons the waiter over. ‘We’ll start with a selection of all the starters and bring us a bottle of the 2009 Pauillac,’ he informs the waiter. “Except the Tartare de Cheval,” he adds as an afterthought.
“I said carte blanche for us two, not the whole restaurant,” I hiss as the waiter walks away. “How will we eat ten starters between us? Are you some type of feeder?”
He chuckles. ‘I want you to have the chance to experience everything.”
“That’s so wasteful.”
His eyes flash. I guess he’s a man who’s not used to being chastised.
I take a gulp of champagne to calm my nerves.
He leans forward tenting his fingers together on the tabletop. “You’re nervous.”
I bite my lip. How could I not be? I’m trapped in a sexy fire hazard with no windows and the hottest, most intimidating male I’ve ever clapped eyes on, about to be served frogs’ legs. Which isn’t exactly the sexiest food, is it?
What would have happened if Edward Lewis had ordered frogs’ legs for Vivian in Pretty Woman instead of the strawberries?
“A little,” I admit. Having dinner with him in Mykonos was fun and carefree, now knowing who he was…this feels weighted. “This is so normal to you, private dining at an exclusive restaurant. Not to me.”
His brows rise. “Eating with you isn’t normal to me. I’ve been looking forward to this since I stood up in front of you and welcomed the new trainees.”
I swirl the champagne in my flute, stumped for words. Why? I want to ask him.
His hand disappears under the table and finds its way onto my bare thigh. “Tell me about growing up in Wales. You didn’t talk much about it in Mykonos.”
“There’s not much to know,” I say as the waiter approaches with our wine. ‘My mum came over from Croatia when she was twenty. She worked in London, met my dad, followed him to Wales, and never left. She’s a bit of a hippy.”
“They still live in Wales?” he asks after thanking the waiter.
“Mum does.” I clear my throat. “My dad…I don’t know where he is. I’ve never met him.”
His expression softens and he takes my smaller hand in his large one. ‘I’m sorry. Was it just you and your mum growing up?”
I nod, swallowing. “Although there were always people in and out of the house, friends of hers who would come and go.”
“Was that good?” he asks, concerned.
“Sometimes. Other times…no.” Christ, this date is going to end up as a counselling session too.
“What does she do?” he asks, lifting the wine glass to his lips.
“Sometimes she works in a friend’s restaurant. Every now and then she helps a friend with a cleaning job. She’s…a bit flaky.” My cheeks heat. “That’s why I need this job. I can’t mess it up.”
He squeezes my hand gently. “Your contract is safe,” he says in a low voice as our starters arrive. He ordered so much food that it had to be wheeled out on a trolley because the table wasn’t big enough. If I ever treat him to dinner, I’m putting a cap on the number of dishes he orders. “And from what I can see you’re a very intelligent, conscientious lawyer. You’ll do well. Stop worrying about what others think. Now, let’s feed you some fine French cuisine.”
My cheeks heat at the compliment. “Do you care what others think, Tristan?”
The waitstaff leave us alone in the room.
I stare at the frogs’ legs swimming in garlic butter.
His eyes flicker to my lips as he watches me drink the last of the champagne. “Only people who are worth it. Like my family. My son.” He chuckles. “Although these days I think he sees me as an embarrassing father. I’m kissing him in front of his friends too much outside the school gate, he said.”
“What age is he?” I ask as I grasp a snail in my tongs. This could go very badly. Butter drips out but I catch it just in time with a napkin.
“Seven,” he replies, his eyes twinkling in amusement as I fumble with the slippery fucker. “He’s growing up so quickly. I do a double take on some of the questions he asks me. The other day he was a bit naughty at school so I threatened I would tell Santa. Then he started asking loads of questions on exactly how I would ask Santa. He asked me if I would contact him on Instagram.”
Finally, I extract the snail meat with the tiny two-pronged fork. “Is he on Instagram? Your son I mean, not Santa, obviously.”
A warm garlic rubbery sensation explodes in my mouth and oh my God, damn. “This is amazing!” I reach for another one and pick it out of its shell. “Bloody hell, I never knew snails could taste so good. What is happening in my mouth?”
Tristan watches me, laughing. “Easy there, don’t eat too many, they’re quite rich. No. He knows of all the social media sites, but he’s not allowed his own account yet.” He shudders. “He’s way too young. He said his classmate told him Santa wasn’t real. He can smell bullshit. He asked so many questions that eventually I had to break the news that I was Santa.”
“How did he take it?”
“I think I was more upset than he was.”
“I just realised I don’t even know your son’s name.”
“Daniel.” A smile sweeps across his face. “He’s named after Danny Walker. Danny’s his godfather.
“That’s sweet, you and Danny must be very close.” I hesitate. “Is it hard not living with him permanently?”
His expression darkens. “Yes. It kills me every day.”
I sip my wine. There are so many questions I want to ask. “Do you and your ex-wife get along? When she is not trying to kill you with dinnerware.”
He lets out a strangled laugh. “I forgot you witnessed that.”
I haven’t.
His dark brows knit and something that looks a lot like pain flashes across his face. Perhaps I’m not competing with all the women in the online pictures. Perhaps I’m competing with just one.
“She burnt me pretty badly.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
His jaw hardens. “No. Let’s enjoy the evening.”
That’s annoying. It’s niggling me. Did he split up with her because he stopped loving her or because she hurt him?
The hand that rests on my thigh starts tracing circles. Tingly shivers course through me.
‘Do you feel that? he asks hoarsely. “There’s so much chemistry between us. You drive me wild, Elly.’
He finds my hand under the table and places it on his thigh. My fingers graze his bulge as he leans forward and pulls my mouth against his.
Garlic alert, garlic alert! I’ve eaten too much garlic with the snails.
But this is nice. Fuck the trainee contract. Fuck the fancy restaurant and the overly attentive waiting staff. I need this. I need him.
‘Tristan,’ I rasp. ‘We’re in a restaurant.’
‘My restaurant,’ he grunts. “No one can see us here.”
I spread my hand over his dick. It’s warm and hard and exactly what I’ve been craving. He groans into my mouth then deepens the kiss. His hand finds my thigh again and slowly traces a line up my leg until it’s under the hem of my dress. I cling to him, my fingers digging into his biceps.
His fingers dance around the same spot just inches below my core.
Damn tease.
My core pulses with months’ worth of sexual frustration. I need this so badly.
I catch a glimpse of my wide eyes and flushed cheeks in the mirror. ‘This better not be a two-way mirror into the kitchen,’ I mutter.
He lets out a deep throaty laugh. ‘No, sweetheart, it’s just us.’
His fingers continue to skirt over my inner thigh, and I feel myself getting damp. I’m so wound up already, this is embarrassing.
“Tonight, Elly, I’ll give you everything you want. I’ll finish what I started in the elevator. I’ve missed hearing your little moans,’ he whispers against my ear.
I stare at him as his words make their way from my brain to other areas of my body.
God help me.
***
We find the restraint to calm down and finish every drop of the bottle of champagne and the bottle of 2009 something wine.
Thank God it’s not a school night.
My defences have fallen so low I don’t care if there’s a slot at next week’s all-staff call to explain how the CEO got me all hot and bothered in a French restaurant.
“Will you accompany me back to my house, Elly?” He raises his eyebrows in question.
“Actually, I can’t,” I say reluctantly. “I have to be up at 5 in the morning for a train to Wales. I haven’t even packed yet.”
He frowns. “Can you book a later train?”
“No.” I sigh. “It’s my mum’s birthday. I’ve got a surprise booked. I have to get that train to make it on time.”
“I’ll get you a car to Wales.” He goes to pick up his phone. “If that’s too slow, I can arrange a chopper.”
My eyebrows shoot up. A chopper?
“No.” I grab his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous!” I tug his hand away from the phone, interlacing my fingers with his. “I’m leaving from my house tomorrow,” I say firmly, more out of principle than desire. He can’t get his way every time, and I need to keep some self-respect. “Maybe we can do this…another time,” I suggest.
He gives me an exasperated look. “Let me get this straight—the only way I can continue seeing you tonight is if I go back to your hippy commune?”
I stifle a giggle at the thought. “I don’t remember dishing out an invite,” I reply cockily.
He won’t do it. There’s no way Tristan Kane is going to spend a night in my house-share. It’s his way or the highway.
“Elly.” He exhales hard, a defeated look crossing his face. “Can I come back to yours, please?”
I bite my lip to stop a goofy smile from taking over my face. “I suppose.”
“I’ll get the bill and call George,” he says, beckoning to the waiter.
“It’s a few stops on the underground, Princess.” I scoff. “That will be quicker.”
Trying it Megan’s way, I pop a shoulder out. That’ll show him who’s boss.
