Page 42 of The Millionaire Mortician
“Rest is important,” he schooled. “For real, though, I’m glad you rescheduled. I woulda waited a week if I had to.”
“Don’t start.” I giggled.
He put his palms up. “Just sayin’.”
The server arrived and went through the entire greeting process before taking our orders. Fabian took the liberty of ordering for me since he knew what was best on the menu. As soon as the server walked off, the conversation started back up again.
“So what about life?” he asked, tapping the table gently like he was keeping time. “You got any of that lately? Or it’s just customers and inventory counts?”
I twisted my bangle on my wrist. “Life’s been... consistent,” I replied. “Busy as hell, but I like busy.”
“Busy is convenient,” he stated, leaning in toward me again. “Life is loud.”
“You don’t know my life,” I teased, but it came out in a whisper.
He held my gaze as those dimples reappeared with his smirk. “I think I know a little.”
I broke eye contact to reach for my water, and as if it were perfect timing, the server came over, placing the oysters in front of us. Taking the lead, he dressed mine with lemon and a drop of something, slid it toward me with an eyebrow raised like a dare. I laughed and took it, letting the cold, salt, and heat wake up all the places I’d put to sleep to survive my days.
“Mmm, that’s actually good.” I nodded.
He smiled. “I told you I know wassup.” We both laughed.
It wasn’t long after our main course came, and we dug in. He ordered a steak for himself while ordering lamb chops for me. Both had a side of garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus.
We talked and laughed the entire time. There were no dull moments. Fabian flirted constantly but carefully, like a man who could read a room and a woman and wasn’t in a rush to do either sloppily. He asked about my family, and I asked about his. He told me how he hates late emails, and I told him how I love early mornings.
My phone buzzed once in my bag, but I didn’t pull it out. Whoever it was could wait, and if it were Milan, that was even more reason I didn’t need to answer.
Two hours later,we were full and tipsy. It was clearly time for us to go. As we walked out to the valet, I tripped and almost fell over.
“Yeah, I’m not ‘boutta let you drive like that.” Fabe grabbed and held onto me. He then handed over the valet ticket for my truck.
“I’m fine. I literally just tripped over that crack.” I pointed to it.
While I was tipsy, I wasn’t drunk. I was fully aware of my surroundings and what was happening around me.
“Yeah, aight. I hear you.”
A black Tahoe pulled up with blacked-out tints. I snapped my neck in its direction with the quickness because it was the same kind as Milan’s security. I couldn’t see the license plate, which put me on edge.
Fabian must’ve noticed my uneasiness. “You good?” he questioned.
I turned and shot him a faint smile. “Yeah, I’m cool.”
The valet then pulled up in my truck seconds after. As I was headed to the driver’s side, Fabe stopped me. “I’m not letting you drive, love,” he pressed further.
“I’m not finna let you drive me home,” I giggled to ease any tension that was coming.
“That’s cool. You can come chill out with me, and when your head is clear enough, you can drive home. Cool?” he suggested.
I looked up at his large frame with his eager facial expression. I glanced at the time on my phone and saw it was still early, so I didn’t think the idea would hurt anyone. I thought I could sober up more and still have time to reach home at a decent hour.
“Okay, fine,” I gave in.
He waved at the same Tahoe, then the door opened, and a hooded-looking guy exited. Instantly, I was relieved to know it wasn’t one of Milan’s peoples.
“Just follow me. I’ll drive her shit,” he told the guy.
