Page 16 of The Muse
“Champagne, if they have it?” I look at the plush looking truck we're closest to—a minibar converted from an old-fashioned truck is more appropriate. Scott leaves me on one of the empty benches and comes back with two plastic flutes filled with bubbles.
“Cheers.” He lifts his drink, and the simple action draws an automatic smile from me.
“Thank you.”
After a brief pause and another look around, I find myself shrinking under his scrutiny and silence. It makes me wonder what I'm doing, and then consider the actual reason I'm here in the first place.
“Was there something else you needed to say to me? Or is that for later?” I ask, before taking a long sip of champagne. The cool drink instantly refreshes me, and the tickle of bubbles brings my rule-breaking thoughts back to mind.
“Oh, I think there will be plenty. But I’m guessing you’re after the apology I mentioned.”
“Bingo. What made you change your cantankerous mind?”
“Straight in for the kill, then?”
“You offered it up, Mr Foxton.” This time, he’s the one vanishing the champagne. It doesn't seem to stop him looking at me as he drinks, though. Nor does it stop the fact that I'm enjoying him looking me over.
“Your dancing tonight outshone your performance as Giselle. If I’d seen only this, I wouldn’t have written the review I published.”
It isn’t so much as an apology, more of a clarification. At least that’s what the words sound like to me.
“Hardly the apology I was expecting after the words you chose to share with the world. None of which were founded on anything but your untrained eye.” I down the rest of my drink and slam it on the table a little more forcefully than I had planned.
“I may not be a ballet connoisseur, but I know talent and beauty when I see it." The compliment does exactly what it should, as does the calm veneer of his words as they shiver across my skin. "And this evening will go so much smoother if you take what’s on offer without fighting me, Ms Castlewood.”
He leans in as he says the last words, and suddenly I have no idea what we’re talking about. The undercurrent between us is so potent I can’t do anything but imagine our fight again, his hands on me again. And instead of him pulling back, backing off, he moves closer and closer until he's kissed me all too briefly.
My lips part at my own imagination as I stare at his eyes. My mind searches for any type of response which won’t give away my true reaction to him, or the direction my mind can’t keep away from.
“Are you rested enough? I’d like us to get to that dinner before we don't get there at all.”
“How much farther?” I squeak.
“Not far.” He takes my hand and pulls me up, and that dangerous line of heat and passion simmers back down.
He isn’t lying. We walk another few minutes and then around to a back street by The Globe Theatre to a container-sized restaurant. A whole line of them are stacked up next to each other, all serving different cuisine. Not my first thought of where we could go when he offered food, but he continues to lead the way purposefully to one of the shed-sized eateries. Three tables are set up inside, and luckily, there’s one free.
“Perfect,” Scott announces. “I hope you like spice.”
Pulling the chair opposite out for me, he pats it. My feet are grateful for the rest, and I slip my coat off as I look around. I observe two chefs working in the back, a stack of boxes and towers of trays of ingredients around them. It's relaxed and informal. Funny considering the clothes we're both in. And he certainly couldn't look more out of place if he tried.
He flicks open his bow tie, shoving it in his pocket, as he opens the top button on his shirt. “There’s nothing bad on the menu. Although I’m going to order for both of us. Any allergies I should know about? I wouldn’t want to be responsible for anything untoward happening to you.” He gives me a smouldering look, and I’m transported straight back to his apartment with his hands all over my body.
God, I need to get a grip.
“No allergies.” I focus. “It smells amazing.” Rich spices combine with a sticky sweet smell that infuses around us and I’m suddenly starving.
“No champagne here, I’m afraid. We’ll take two beers.” He shouts the second part and I see a man by the tiny counter nod at him.
“This isn’t what I imagined as a place you’d take a girl out, Mr Foxton.”
He shifts in his chair, his elbows propped on the table. “It’s hard to find good food in London that’s not a rip-off. Besides, I don’t need to impress you.”
“Really?” I tilt my head to the side, trying to follow his chain of thought.
“No. You already hate my guts. That I took you to a cheap but oh so good place to grab some authentic Asian street food isn’t going to be a dealbreaker.”
Our beers are delivered and Scott rattles off a list of dishes to the waiter as if he's been here repeatedly. I think I make out ‘gua bao’ in there, but I have no idea what I’ll be eating as they chat amiably in greeting.
