Page 48 of The Unraveling

My eyebrows raise as I take one off the ice. I start to put a splash of mignonette on, when his hand touches mine.

I almost gasp at the surprise of his touch and the warmth of it.

“Trust me, try it on its own first,” he says. “They’re exceptional.”

“Okay.” I smile and then do as he says.

For me, oysters are nothing but an expensive vehicle for the crisp, tart bite of mignonette or the sinus-searing electricity of fresh horseradish, but I do it anyway.

He does not seem to be the kind of man you want to say no to.

I tilt my head back and let the oyster fall into my mouth. My tongue lights up with the bright minerality and soft texture.

“That’s delicious,” I say, covering my mouth and pretending it was as delicious as he said it would be. Maybe I’m just unsophisticated, but I missed the shallots and vinegar.

He flips over his shell on the ice and I see the engraving he was talking about, then do the same with my empty shell.

“If this were the other night, it would be time to mention how oysters are an aphrodisiac.”

Oh my god, why did I say that? That’s the kind of thing you think, you don’t say. Holy shit, and how inappropriate!

I bite my bottom lip and look at him, ready to apologize, but he has a slight smile at the corner of his lips. Even if there is a slight expression of cringe in the set of his brow.

“You know, oysters used to grow in the Thames. They went extinct.” He gives a shake of his head. “Unimaginable now, though I hear they’re back.”

“That’s a much more interesting tidbit than mine,” I say.

“I liked yours, too,” he says.

It would sound almost flirtatious if his eyes hadn’t completely wandered away from our table and into the belly of the restaurant.

We cannot be attracted to each other. As good as the other night was. We just cannot. Not now. Not now that I know who he is.

God, this is such a fucking disaster. This is what I get for wishing out loud that life were like a movie.

“This menu is amazing. I don’t know where to begin.”

This is very, very true. Unlike my review of the naked oyster. Most of this menu is in other languages, seeming to be as much in French as it is in Hebrew as it is in an Asian language I’m too ignorant to identify.

“I’m happy to order for you. If you wish.”

“Sure,” I say, putting down the menu, relieved.

He doesn’t ask me what I like. Doesn’t ask if I have any dietary restrictions. It reminds me of when I met Jordan for the first time in Vienna and he helped me order off of a long, complicated menu. He had been thoughtful and gentle. Nothing like this man, who exudes power and couldn’t seem less interested in something as frivolous as personal taste or a gluten allergy.

Neither of which I seem to have at the moment.

I sniff a little, still affected by my momentary tears. My nerve has decreased, and I don’t have the zeal I had a few moments ago to aggressively tell him to sponsor me.

Instead, I reach for my wine, which I didn’t really notice or taste, since I was too busy sharing an unexpected glance with Alistair and trying not to weep openly at what is unquestionably a Michelin-starred restaurant.

It’s magnificent. So wildly good that I can’t believe I didn’t notice it at first.

It tastes like how I imagine butter, but also how I imagine the scent of fresh lemon. The weight of it feels like my tongue pressed against someone else’s—someone delicious and intoxicating.

“This wine is amazing,” I say.

“It’s my favorite.”

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