Page 22 of Off Limits

I’ve booked one of the circular booths that line the perimeter of the restaurant. It’s extremely hard to get a reservation for one of the booths, but my firm designed the restaurant space and I know the owner. In the past year, I’ve booked a booth a few times to impress a date, although this time feels more special.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Rochat,” says a white-shirt clad waiter, bowing his head as he fills our water glasses from a tall, thin bottle. He sets a wine list on the table and asks, “May I make some recommendations for an aperitif for you and your date?”

Dani flushes with pleasure, thrilled, no doubt, at the prospect of being taken for legal drinking age.

“I’ll have a vodka soda,” I say, a little archly, “but my daughter is only eighteen. What will you have, sweetheart?”

She gives me a small pout, and I lift an eyebrow. Birthday or not, I’m not supporting underage drinking.

“I’ll have a Coke,” she tells the waiter, who bows and takes his leave.

“Your date,” repeats Dani, with a little laugh, making me smile.

“I should be so lucky to have such a beautiful date,” I tell her, reaching for her hand and stroking the soft skin over her knuckles. The diamond necklace winks brilliantly from where it rests on her sternum. As the waiter returns to the table with our drinks, I drop my eyes and pull my hand away, feeling self-conscious.

“Do you ever?” asks Dani, bending down to sip from her straw after the waiter leaves. “Date anyone, I mean?”

I hesitate for a moment before answering. Divorce is hard on kids. I don’t want her to think I got over her mother easily, but I don’t want to lie to her either.

“Yes, I date occasionally,” I tell her, eyeing her to gauge her response. She nods and looks down at her drink, and I can’t tell if the revelation upsets her or not. “How do you feel about that?” I ask. “I know it must be hard to feel like your mother and I got over each other.”

“No.” She shakes her head emphatically. “Not at all. I don’t know how you…how you put up with her for so long. I’m glad you did, for my sake. But I can understand how you might want to move on.”

Dani was always an insightful child, who frequently surprised me with what she perceived of adult life. I guess growing up with Melanie taught her to be observant and vigilant. But strangely, her acceptance of the fact that I’ve been dating doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would. In a way, I feel guilty about it.

“I haven’t met anyone I’ve really clicked with,” I add, and a very subtle look of relief passes over her face. “How about you? What’s happening with Kye?” I almost choke on my words saying his name but try to hide my true feelings behind a tight smile.

She rolls her eyes up to the crystal chandelier above us. “Ugh, he’s a jerk,” she groans. The idea that he’s been a jerk to her makes me equally angry and relieved. That fucking kid. But at least he’ll be out of her life now.

“Hmm,” I say nonchalantly. It’s not my place to get involved. I take a sip of my drink and look out across the room. The restaurant is filling up and there’s a hub of noise and activity in the centre, but the padded booth seems to muffle the sound somewhat. Our table is at a peaceful remove.

I make a few suggestions to Dani and when the waiter comes back I order for us. Oysters and champagne to start, then the braised beef cheek for me and the pan-roasted chicken for Danica. I soften my stance on alcohol and let her share my champagne when the oysters arrive.

She’s never had oysters before, but approaches them gamely, cringing slightly the first time the cool, slippery flesh slides down her throat but then smiling and widening her eyes with pleasure at the salty taste. I have a visceral response watching her tilt her head back and swallow the briny delicacy—a sudden, physical pull, and an extremely inappropriate gathering of heat in my groin. I pinch my eyebrows and look away.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing, baby,” I say softly. “Everything’s perfect.”

By the time we’re on dessert—a tasteful chocolate mousse for Dani, presented with a restrained display of fanfare from our waiter, and a whiskey for me—we’re back on the topic of dating.

“So when’s the last time you went on a date?” Dani asks.

For some reason, I hesitate. Curiously, it feels like a betrayal. “I was on a date last week when you had Kye over,” I answer, taking a sip of my drink.

Dani flashes her eyes at me. “You were? Last week?”

“Mm-hm,” I nod, trying not to think too much about it. ‘Daddy’s gonna have his hands full,’ Cynthia’s voice whispers from my memory.

“So you’re dating someone?”

“No. It was a first date. It wasn’t a…” I search for my words, “a match.”

“I guess not,” she says wickedly, “considering how early you got home.”

I train my eyes on her for a moment, not reacting and not looking away. It’s the provocative comment of a grown woman, and to be honest, it catches me off guard. It’s Dani fishing for information about my sex life. I rest my elbow on the table and run a finger across my lower lip thoughtfully until a flush spreads on her cheeks and she ducks her eyes.

“What would have happened if I didn’t get home when I did?” I ask her, still watching her intently. My voice is low and quiet; serious. She blinks her big blue eyes up at me.

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