Page 24 of A Smooth Operator

"At a cost," I pointed out. His places were not cheap. The cover charge at Paint the Town Red was two drinks, and cocktails started at fifteen dollars a pop.

"Hell, yeah. I'm not running a charity here. I'm in the business of making money."

"Isn't everyone?" I remarked blandly instead of charging into him about how he was also one of the entitled assholes.

My lack of enthusiasm went unnoticed.

"Well, I try. But I won't lie; there are times I want to pull my hair out. Like the time my head chef quit with zero notice and left me scrambling to fill the gap."

"How did you manage?" I ate some bisque.

"Got the sous-chef from Remi's to come down here. It was one of the longest nights of my life." He smiled then. "But it all worked out because I hired Jacques and haven't looked back since. If Michelin came to Memphis, De La Mer would get a star. I'm certain of it."

I nodded thoughtfully. "It's impressive that you can juggle all of that."

"Thanks," he said, his smile softening. "And what about you, Dr. Devlin? What's the most ridiculous thing that's happened in the lab?"

"Oh, nothing quite as dramatic as flaming shots," I replied, "but I did have an intern spill a whole container of cell cultures on herself once. She panicked and ran to the emergency shower without even thinking about the $10,000 worth of research she’d just ruined."

Remi winced. "Ouch. What did you do?"

"I couldn't even be mad. She was so mortified that I just helped her clean up and let her take the rest of the day off."

"You're kinder than I would've been. But then it's the company's money, right?"

I didn't like how he said that and since anything I said would come out snippy, I kept my mouth shut.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that this dinner was a mistake. In between our conversations that easily flowed there was unease—a sense of disquiet. He didn't want to be here—but was putting on a show. I was certain of it.

Could I feign a sudden migraine or something and get the hell out of here?

Before I could put that ploy into action, the third course, a seared sea bass with a delicate herb crust, was accompanied by a vibrant Sancerre that cut through the richness of the fish with refreshing acidity.

I found myself relaxing despite the flicker of doubt in the back of my mind.

The final course was a lemon tart with a buttery crust, paired with a late-harvest Riesling that tasted like honeyed apricots.

"Thanks for being there for me that night, Echo. It meant a lot."

I wanted to call bullshit on that, but before I could, his phone pinged, and his attention was diverted. He looked at me chagrined. "Sorry about that. It's the club."

"You have to go?"

"Yeah," he said apologetically, but it felt manufactured.

I was about to stand, but he put his hand on my shoulder. "Stay. We'll order you a car."

"If you're driving to the club, maybe you can drop me off. My place will be on your way."

He looked uncomfortable at that. "I'm on my bike."

"Oh. Okay. I'll walk you out."

He pursed his lips and looked sheepish. "Just wait here. There are people out there who know me, and I don't want them to see that I'm having dinner with you, well, not you per se, but another woman. Everyone is talking about Marina and me breakin' up, and I just don't want another rumor to catch on."

This was really not a date. Worse, it was a dirty, secret dinner.

My heart hammered in my chest, and I felt queasy, ready to throw up the beautiful meal I'd just eaten.

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