Page 170 of Remy

“You can order from the menu,” the waitress offers, “or choose to be surprised with what has already been prearranged.”

“I want to be surprised,” Lucy gushes.

“Me, too.” Dad places his menu on the table without looking at it.

All eyes turn to me.

“A surprise would be nice,” I lie.

I don’t think I can handle more revelations. My bucket already overfloweth with praise for Remy. I’m not sure I’ll even be able to hold a conversation with him after this—not with my ovaries in knots and my heart seriously entangled.

“Great. I’ll let the chef know.” The waitress retrieves the menus one by one, hugging them to her chest. “The first of your ten-course meal should be ready shortly.” She turns on her heel, her ponytail swishing.

“Ten.” Lucy’s eyes threaten to fall out of her head with how wide they stretch.

Dad chuckles. “I hope everyone is hungry.”

“It’s a tasting menu,” Remy cuts in with refinement. “Each plate will be a small portion.”

I nibble my bottom lip, staring absentmindedly at my sparkling cutlery.

I can’t tell if this is common nature for someone with Remy’s wealth, or if he’s deliberately impressing me. Either way, someone has to tell him that continuing down the generous extravagance path is only making me want to experience all those dirty sex acts Ivy boasts about.

If he’s not careful, I’ll dock his brains out right here at the dinner table.

I reach for my champagne, only to turn rigid when Remy leans close.

“Are you okay?” His warm knuckles skate over the material of my skirt, pressing gently into my thigh.

“Mm-hmm.” I take another gulp, emptying my glass.

I know alcohol isn’t the answer, but I’m not sure what is when my body is filled with a demented level of thermonuclear energy.

“Just hungry.” I tilt my legs away and lower the flute to the table, the base barely brushing against the tablecloth before the waitress hustles forward to fill it again.

“Did you hear a new Italian restaurant opened in Towson that has some sort of celebrity chef?” Dad asks.

I ignore him as I smile in thanks at the waitress, whispering my gratitude.

Remy and my dad chat about the restaurant, the conversation soon evolving into the topic of nightclubs, and then government rules and regulations.

I don’t expect them to get along so well. But they talk without pause, one discussion rolling into another, with fun quips and taunting sarcasm that makes Lucy laugh while I pretend to be enamored by the violinist and not their bond.

It isn’t long before the waitress returns with a team of staff trailing behind her, all four of them exuding some form of nervousness as they position themselves behind each of us to synchronize the placing of our meals.

“This is the amuse-bouche.” Our main waitress moves to stand tall before me and my father. “It’s a petite gougère filled with truffle-infused béchame.”

I’m pretty sure she’s butchered a few of the pronunciations but it’s incredibly endearing.

Remy inclines his head in gratitude while the rest of us sit in awe as the staff scuffle away.

It’s so strange—us dressed like royalty in a family diner, the waitstaff equally out of sorts with the fine-dining experience.

I don’t even know how I’m supposed to eat the pastry. With my fingers? A knife and fork?

I focus on Dad, waiting to see how he handles the situation, and find him staring at the tiny morsel of artistically displayed food in confoundment.

This is ridiculous—the clothes, the restaurant, the misplaced luxury.

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