Page 21 of Plum

She blows him a kiss. My fists tighten. A disorienting wave of irritation rolls through me. I step forward.

“Can we eat?” she asks, grabbing my hand. It’s delicate and soft. My breath catches, awareness slamming through me, priming my muscles.

She blinks at me, surprised. Did she feel that, too? I gaze down into her plain-blue eyes. The color is nothing special. I have a dozen shirts that color. Why is it so damn hard to look away?

“Come on.” I guide her through the revolving door, keeping that hand covered in mine, and I calm. The hostess greets me by name, asks after my stepfather. The strange feeling passes, replaced with a slight embarrassment.

I’ve booked a corner table in the back, along the bank of windows overlooking the confluence of the Luckahannock and the Nocochtank. It’s as private as they offer.

I eat here often. It’s the best fine dining in the city. The staff are well-trained. The hostess, the waiter, the sommelier. They all keep their faces perfectly blank as they offer Plum a chair, pour her water, and describe the evening’s wine pairings.

Plum plops her huge purse on her lap, and clasps her hands on top of it. She keeps her head down. The hostess, the waiter, the sommelier. All they get from her is a tiny nod, the briefest side glance.

You could cut her uneasiness with a knife, but there’s a perverted part of me that’s getting off on it. She’ll only look directly at me. Like I’m the one in charge. My cock is throbbing under the linen napkin I unfolded on my lap the instant we were seated.

As soon as the wait staff walks away, she lifts her head and glares. She hasn’t even picked up her menu. I ordered the charcuterie and a Moscato for her, a pinot noir for myself.

I nudge the menu toward her. “Aren’t you going to look?”

“I thought you already ordered for me.”

“Not the entree. Only a starter.”

She picks up the menu as if it’s going to bite her, stares at it a moment, squinting, her nose wrinkling. Fucking adorable. Then she huffs, flops it on her plate, and digs through her purse.

A few moments later, she pulls out a pair of cat’s eye glasses. On a braided cord.

I think I’d be less surprised if she pulled out a flask or a vape.

“You wear glasses?”

She glares daggers at me over the rims.

I raise my glass. “No offense intended. I wear them myself. Obviously.”

She glances back down at the menu.

She takes so long reading it, I have to wave the waiter off twice. I don’t interrupt. She’s too sweet to watch. She’s crossed her legs, and she’s dangling a shoe from her toes. Every so often, she purses her lips and huffs in frustration.

She’s so intent on the menu that she doesn’t seem fully aware when she reaches for her wine and downs it in three gulps.

“Do you have any questions?”

She blinks those perfectly ordinary blue eyes at me, deeply aggrieved and so damn defensive. Blood rushes to my cock.

She exhales a long-suffering sigh. “Sure.”

She starts at the top of the menu, running her index finger along the text.

“Amouse-Bouche. Squab. Fois Gras Confit. Melange. Pain Perdu. Beurre Rouge.”

She mispronounces everything with irritated gusto.

“And what the fuck is salmon poke and what the fuck is a raft of garden tomatoes?”

I’m about to answer when she slaps the menu on the table.

“I have another question. What is this kink? Do you get off on makin’ poor bitches feel less than? Is that it? Is it like a domination thing so you can feel like a big man, all rich and shit?”

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