Page 17 of The Muse
“Are you going to tell me what you ordered?” I ask as the waiter disappears.
“And where’s the fun in that?”
His smile transforms his face to the handsome man I keep trying to forget, and I keep my gaze averted so he can’t see my reaction and pick up my beer.
“So, Scott. You’ve seen a behind the scenes, mortifying look into my career. I know that you’re a scathing critic that isn’t fond of ballet, judging by what you’ve written, but you are an art critic that works for The Herald. Care to fill in any more details?”
“You’ve researched me?”
“I wanted to know who tore me to pieces for all to read.” He leans away at that, seemingly annoyed at something, and all it does is make me desperate for his smile again. I pick up my beer and laugh, trying to lighten his mood again. “Not so fond of me digging around about you, Mr Foxton?” His arms cross, a glimmer of a smile coming back. “It wasn't research, per se. I don't have the time for that. Just stating the obvious really.”
“Right. Well, what else is there to say? You've said it all. I like art, and I'm good at criticising it. I was also lucky enough to be asked to cover your finale, which is why I was at the ballet in the first place.”
Several bowls and plates are suddenly placed in front of us to cover every inch of our table. All smell delicious and I have no clue what any of them are.
“And why were you there tonight?” I ask, looking at the array of food and licking my lips. “Was that professional as well?”
“Not in the slightest. I was simply invested in watching you move. Still am.” My head snaps up. “You, little Ms Castlewood, are an extremely attractive woman to look at. Taut. Tight. Intriguing. Especially when you lick your lips like you just have done.”
Embarrassment floods me. I don’t think I've ever heard someone talk like that, concerning me, in my life. My thighs tense at the thought, a blush of colour racing across my face.
I swallow, attempting to control the sudden need to run. Not that I want to, but this man is real. He's forward, solid, and everything masculinity should be instead of the drama queens and egos I've been used to in dance. It's making me feel weak in comparison. Naive even.
“So … what is what?” I stutter, looking at the food again. “Give me a clue.”
He chuckles and clears the two empty beer bottles, signalling for another round. “Fine. If you don’t want to play. Sticky ribs, pork in a bun with coriander, spicy rice, chicken skewers. Happy with the translation?”
“Sounds delicious.” It does. Although I have no idea how I'm meant to eat this without covering my dress—apparently, cutlery isn’t required for street food. Scott picks up one of the pork dumpling rolls and takes a bite. I watch and look back at the table of food. The ribs are covered in a thick, unctuous coating. I pick it up and hold it between my fingers as gently as possible and take a bite, smearing the rich and spicy sauce over my lips and even my cheek in the process.
“There we go.” Scott looks at me as if waiting for this to happen and laughs. “All dirty.”
Embarrassment shoots to my cheeks again, and as well as being covered in spicy sauce, they turn beet red for the second time in minutes.
“Stop it.” I giggle, grabbing a few of the paper napkins from the dispenser between us to clean up.
“Don’t do that. I'm enjoying seeing you all dirtied up.”
“Scott, your mouth.” I give him a stern look. Or rather, what I’ve seen given to me by every single person of authority my entire life.
“What about my mouth?” He licks his lips for effect before grabbing the new beers that have been placed before us at some point.
“You need to wash it out with far more than beer,” I say between giggles again before grabbing my own mouthful of beer. It suddenly occurs to me that I’ve already drunk more tonight than I have done in a long, long time. It’s not a happy thought, but I’m not going to feel sorry for myself tonight.
Nope.
Tonight is for breaking all the rules, including fraternizing with the enemy. At least that’s what I imagine my big brother might describe this as. But then, Scott doesn’t know I’m actually a Broderick, does he? And, regardless of continuing embarrassing intervals, I'm having way too much fun to worry about that right now.
“Fine. No more dirty comments. But know they’re running through my head. Constantly.”
“You did this on purpose.”
“Only some of it. This is the best Asian food I’ve had here. And I wasn’t going to take you to a place I didn’t like.”
“Have you travelled much in Asia then?” I try and steer the conversation onto a safe topic and go back to eating the food. It really is delicious, although my tongue is beginning to taste the chillies.
“A little. But mostly in Europe. I spent a number of years in Paris. I only moved back from there a year or so ago.”
“I’ve only visited while I was touring. I imagine it to be a beautiful city if I'd had the time to see any of it.”
