Page 7 of Blood and Buttercups

“I have no interest in your vital organs,” he answers, his voice thick with amusement. “You look lovely.”

“You do, too,” I say warily.

Smiling, Ethan extends his hand toward the door. “After you.”

The inside of the restaurant is just as fancy as the outside. A hostess smiles at Ethan when we step through the door. Without asking a single question, she leads us around the corner and into the dark room.

Most of the tables are full. There are women bedecked in diamonds and men wearing suits that look as expensive as Ethan’s. One entire wall appears to be a solid sheet of rock, and water cascades over its front like a very tidy waterfall.

A group of men in the corner catches my attention. Noticing, Ethan takes my elbow and guides me forward. Under his breath, he says, “They don’t like it when you look at them too closely.”

Startled, I glance back at my date, wondering what kind of mobster movie my clearance dress and I have landed in.

Once we’re at the table, Ethan orders wine before I can tell him I prefer sparkling water.

I sit back in my seat, feeling acutely uneasy. “This place looks like it’s for the reservation-only crowd, but we walked right in.”

“I don’t need a reservation,” Ethan says, opening his menu.

“You’re a regular?” I’m not sure that makes me feel better. How many women has he brought here?

“I own the restaurant,” he says absently. “The filet is good, but the ribeye is excellent.”

He owns the restaurant?

I look down at my menu, realizing with growing trepidation that the prices aren’t even marked next to the entrees. “I don’t eat meat, though I have fish occasionally.”

Ethan’s stunned silence makes me look up.

“I never developed much of a taste for it,” I explain.

The truth is, just the thought of it makes me gag. Maybe it’s the texture, or the fact that it was once an animal—I don’t really know. I just can’t stand it.

Ethan looks as if he’s unsure how to answer.

“Is the eggplant parmigiana good?” I ask, locating the one meatless item on the menu. “Or the salmon?”

Bemused, he extends his hands in an apology. “I’ve never had either.”

“No? You can try some of my salmon. I think that’s what I’m going to order.”

I realize that sounds a bit too intimate after I offer, but Ethan looks pleased.

“Good evening, Mr. Brennan,” our server says when she arrives, setting a glass of white wine in front of me and red wine in front of Ethan. “Are you ready to order?”

“Did you decide on the salmon?” Ethan asks. When I nod, he gives our order to the waitress, and she disappears with our menus.

I run my finger over the rim of my glass, not sure what to talk about.

Ethan nods toward the wine. “It’s a 2012 Chablis Grand Cru Blanchot.”

I have no clue what that is, but I take a sip and try not to make a face. “It’s nice.”

“It’s one of my favorites.”

“Why order red if you like this white?”

Ethan takes a sip from his wine and then sits back with a sigh. “I drink it for health reasons.”

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