Page 62 of Resisting Mr Black

Heat rises in my cheeks at the compliment. “Oh. And am I your lady, then?” I tease.

“Of course, and you’re beautiful. Every guy in this place looked at you when you walked in.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the menu and arches an eyebrow signalling his disapproval. “Trust me, I noticed.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything and pick up my menu and open it up. Lists upon lists of scrawly writing cover the pages and I have no idea where to start. I’m overwhelmed.

“What would you like to eat?” he asks.

“There’s so much choice, where do I begin? Have you eaten here before?”

“Lots of times.” He looks at me. “Shall I order for us both? I’m thinking of getting the tasting menu, then there’s a selection of dishes for us to choose from.”

I smile. “Sounds perfect.”

A waiter suddenly appears at the table. “Are sir and madam ready to order drinks?”

“Yes, and food, please,” Art replies.

He reels off a list in fluent French and all I’m able to catch is his request for a glass of wine and mineral water. He obviously did pay attention in class.

“Very good, sir.” The waiter nods his head, collects the menus, and disappears.

He rests his arm across the top of the green velvet booth behind my head and turns his body towards mine.

“I’ve ordered you a glass of Pinot Grigio, I hope that’s okay?”

“Of course,” I laugh. “That’s the only part I understood. Do you not drink alcohol at all?”

He shakes his head and unfastens the single button of his jacket. “Not a drop.”

I twist around to face him, eager to know more. “When did you stop?”

He rakes a hand through his hair and glances out towards the restaurant. “Five years ago.”

“Why?”

“After Dad died, I drank to forget. It helped numb the pain and blot out… everything. But it changed me into someone else and I hated that person. I knew I had to stop before it destroyed me.”

My eyes lower to his waist. “Is that when you got your scar?”

He fixes me a long look and I know he’s telling me to back away from the conversation. “I was lost for a while, fucked things up, and made some bad choices which I regret, but I got back on the straight and narrow and launched the gym chain.”

“Why did you go into fitness?”

The waiter returns with our drinks and Art waits for him to leave before continuing. “I haven’t always been athletic.” He picks up his glass of water and takes a sip before continuing. “I was skinny when I was younger. It’s easy to push around the weedy kid who’s in foster care.” He takes a long drink of water then places the glass down on the table and twists it around in his fingers. He stares at the glass as if he doesn’t want to look at me. “So, one day, after a particularly fierce beating, I decided that when I grew up no one would ever beat me up again.”

The look in his eye tells me there’s far more to this tale than he’s ready to share and my heart aches for him. My childhood was loving and full of good memories. I can’t even begin to imagine what horrors he experienced when he was growing up.

I place my hand on his wrist in a comforting gesture. “Kids are cruel.”

His jaw stiffens, and he says nothing, slipping his fingers through mine on the table.

I pick up my wine glass and take a sip. The cool, crisp liquid slips down a treat. He’s opening up and I’ve got to push further. “Do you remember your parents?”

“My dad wasn’t on the scene, and my mum was a single mum. She struggled for money and couldn’t look after me properly, so I was taken into care when I was five.” He gazes off into the distance and there’s a haunted look in his eye for a second, then he seems to snap out of it. “I don’t really remember her.” He frowns and takes another sip of water. “I went to live with Mum and Dad when I was ten. They couldn’t have kids of their own. My life transformed when I met them, and I’ll be eternally indebted to them for that. Barbara, my adoptive mum, still lives in the same house I grew up in.”

He lifts his eyes to mine and all traces of the pained look from seconds earlier have vanished. He breaks into an easy smile. “She’ll love you.”

I freeze, glass in hand, and doubt my hearing. The hammering of my heart in my ears now means I truly can’t hear anything. That very much sounded like he’s suggesting I’ll be meeting his mum.

---