Page 55 of The Wild Charge

It was strange.

The front doors were glass edged with bright gold, and inside they found an airlock with coat racks, and a host station where a man in a white shirt and black tie greeted them with a quiet “good evening, gentlemen.”

Tenny cleared his throat. His voice came out strained. “It’s, um, it’s under Fox.”

The host checked a list, then nodded. Gathered up two leather-bound menus. “Of course. Right this way, if you please.”

Reese scanned the restaurant as they were led through it; noted the white tablecloths, the low lighting, the votive candles. Soft music played from a speaker system, and people sat in couples or small groups; he didn’t notice any children; everyone spoke in low tones, so that the noise was only an indistinct murmuring, punctuated by the clink of flatware and the soft pop of a wine cork as a waiter poured at one table.

The host led them out through a side door and onto the patio, to a table tucked in a corner of the fence, overhead string lights glittering in the cut crystal of the water glasses.

Reese felt a bit like he’d stumbled into the sort of op Tenny was better-suited for, as he sat and was offered a menu heavy as a book. The sort of op where you dressed up and pretended to be someone else and did recon on a rich mark.

But there was no mark, no fancy clothes, no pre-prescribed roles, and when the host departed, it was only them, the quiet conversations of other diners like the rush of white noise around them.

Tenny opened his menu on the tabletop and stared down at it, fiddling with his rolled silverware. “This place is reservation-only after five. So.” He shrugged, a restless, tense gesture.

“Oh.” Reese paged through his own menu, overwhelmed by the variety of choices. He couldn’t remember ever going to a restaurant that didn’t have pictures on the menu. “Have you been here before?”

“No. The website said the shrimp scampi was good. Or the chicken parm.”

“Okay.” Reese studied him: his cheeks looked even pinker in the candlelight, and he’d shifted so that he was playing with his hair, now, tugging at it in front, chewing at his lip.Sonervous. And why? It wasn’t like they didn’t eat together every day…albeit usually a sandwich in the kitchen, or something simple and greasy from a restaurant that didn’t bother with candles and tablecloths.

He twisted side to side in his chair, searching the other diners. Couples. Foursomes of two couples. A few wore jeans, but most looked as if they’d come straight from an office somewhere, in slacks, or skirts. The two women seated nearest them clinked their wine glasses together, and smiled warmly at each other, as if…

Reese turned back to Tenny, who was about to chew a hole in his lip.

…they were on a date.

“Tenny,” he said, and Tenny finally picked up his head, his gaze hunted beneath long lashes. He looked caught-out; Reese would have saidfrightenedif he didn’t know better. “Are…are we on a date?”

His pulse gave a little kick, and he wasn’t sure, suddenly, what he wanted the answer to be.

Tenny blinked, then grimaced. Wiped a hand down his face. “Shit,” he muttered. “Shit…yeah. Yeah, we’re on a date.”

His pulse kicked again, and then settled; warmth pooled in his belly, and Reese supposed he had the answer about his own wants. “Okay,” he said, and went back to his menu. “What are you going to eat? There’s a lot to choose from.”

When he glanced up at him again, Tenny was slack-jawed and gaping.

“What?”

“’Okay’? Just like that?”

Reese’s turn to shrug. “Kristen kept saying I needed to date. So. Now I am.” Back to the menu. “What’scoq au vin?”

Silence a beat. And then a low, soft laugh. Quietly, Tenny said, “You’re a marvel, aren’t you?” Then he cleared his throat and spoke at a normal volume. “Chicken braised in wine. You’ll like it.”

Reese looked up, doubtful – and found Tenny gazing at him with eyes so soft they were barely recognizable.

His pulse wasn’t done doing tricks, it turned out, but now, at least, they were nothing but the pleasant sort.

Fifteen

As it turned out, Tenny was even stupider than he’d initially thought, because all the things about the mundane, ridiculous concept ofdatingthat had so repulsed him were things that Reese – simple, straightforward Reese – would never expect, want, or ask of him. Having a romantic relationship with him would never require flowers or jewels; would never require tersely muttered “fine”s or manipulative emotional games. No anniversaries, no Valentine’s.

Shame and embarrassment warred in his belly, because what a fool he’d been to think he needed to bring Reese somewhere like this, with candles, and tablecloths, and normal people all around them. But that feeling had ebbed as the minutes ticked by, and Reese assumed his usual guileless, unbothered air, asking about the rest of the menu, making a face at the wine and saying he preferred beer. He ordered thecroq au vin, though, and when Tenny asked how he liked it, he slid his plate across in offering.

Tenny smiled to himself, as he pushed his own scampi across to the other side of the table. He’d been on an op once, one in which he’d wined and dined a government official to get his hands on the flash drive she’d stupidly carried in her handbag; they’d tasted food off one another’s forks, and linked hands over the table while she murmured about the color of his eyes.

---