Page 13 of Corkscrew You
“I’ll have the Eastern Old Fashioned,” she says.
“Does it contain mollusk milk?” Nathan asks the waitperson.
“Fifteen-year-old whisky, sir,” is the reply. “And ruby port.”
“Sounds safe,” says Nathan. “Make that two.”
“Along with an infusion of—”
Nathan holds up his palm to forestall further explanation.
“Very good, sir.” Ted trains his staff well. “And for madame?”
“That’s you,” Chiara nudges my arm. “Hurry up.”
“OK, I’ll have whatever is closest to a tequila slammer,” I say.
“With the eggfruit chicha?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
The waitperson gathers our menus and glides away.
Nathan looks around, taking in the gold velvet, the arty flower arrangements made with dried lotus bulbs, and the food item on a neighbouring table that’s puffing dry ice. I notice he ignores all the men who are still ogling Chiara.
“I’m impressed,” he says. “I also feel like I’m being filmed by David Lynch.”
“The Log Lady only does weekends.”
Chiara picks an olive out of a bowl that’s probably antique French crystal and places it slowly between her glossy lips, causing a roomful of guys to release a low moan.
Nathan, however, is looking at me. Again.
I don’t know what to make of it. I mean, if anyone were asked to pick the odd person out at the table tonight, they’d take a nanosecond to point in my direction.
Nathan is wearing a sharp suit and a classy tie, and the low light emphasizes the amazing planes of his face. For every man here having desperate fantasies about Chiara, there’s a woman storing those cheekbones in her memory banks for retrieval when she’s next in bed alone.
Chiara is the one who matches him, not me. But even though she’s currently committing a minor sex crime with an olive, she’s not the one capturing Nathan’s attention.
I can only imagine he feels sorry for me, being the dress-deprived little hick I am. Or he’s seen what a dumpster fire my life is, and wants to keep a close eye on me, in case I do something foolish. My body might be feeling warm where his gaze lands, but that’s just head-in-cloud talk. Focus, Shelby. This is business, business, business.
Our drinks arrive. I’m glad for the distraction. And I guess I’ll soon find out whether I’m allergic to eggfruit.
“Holy swizzle stick, that’s good,” I announce.
Nathan casts a bemused look at Chiara. “Was it a head injury? Or has she never had the ability to swear?”
“The world’s science community remains puzzled,” Chiara replies.
She raises her Eastern Old Fashioned, which looks a weird colour to me but whatever.
“Bottoms up, as they almost certainly don’t say in Britain.”
We clink glasses, and the rest of the evening passes by in a bit of a blur.
Nathan drives me home, which is lucky as otherwise I’d have to walk. Dylan the goose has a lot to say about our arrival. Better than any guard dog.
“OK if I don’t get out?” Nathan asks. “There are several parts of my body I’d like to keep.”
