Page 238 of Mangled Memory
By the time we’re sitting at a table along the wall, I’m halfway through my glass of red. It’s rich and bold and makes my belly warm and my mind soft.
“Is this where we had our first date?”
Christian’s head whips up. “No. What makes you say that?”
I hold the disappointment aside, not knowing why it gnaws in my gut. It’s not like I remember it to want it recreated or that I need my husband to do something that… I don’t know, cheesy. But for some reason my mind was so stuck on theconcept, that I’m at a loss. “I don’t know. Would it be weird to say it feels familiar even if I don’t know why?”
His hand reaches out to clasp mine and he rubs his thumb over the top of my knuckles above my wedding ring.
“Familiar isn’t bad, baby.”
“Familiar isn’t good when you can’t figure out why.”
“We own this place. Same for the wine bar next door. We stood this one up in the last fourteen months. You were here for the grand opening and a few times since. You and Halley have been next door more times than I want to count. And if security footage is anything to go by, you wouldn’t remember your time there anyway.”
I look around and the mahogany wood paneled walls with the sconces above each of the white-clothed tables. The masculine artwork and the burgundies of the seat backs. It feels like a smoking lounge from a regency film only without cigars but with a mouth-watering menu.
“Mrs. Barone.” A waiter slides steak and scallops in front of me and a steak in front of Christian with a, “Mr. Barone.” He adds asparagus and gratin potatoes as well as Brussels sprouts to the middle, overwhelming the smaller table. As he leaves, another takes his place refilling water and wine.
I can’t get over that we own this place or that he’s watched me on the video after having too many drinks. Scratch that, I’m not surprised at all by either.
The man across from me lifts his glass. “To familiar things and to new experiences. And to being by your side through it all.”
“Sláinte.” I clink my glass to his and take a sip.
The scallops are perfection. The steak may as well be made of butter since I hardly need the knife to cut it. The veggies are fresh, crisp, and flavorful. I’m afraid to taste the potatoes because if they’re as good as they look, I won’t want anything else.
I have a full bite of steak when an older gentleman with a head full of thick white hair walks to our table and shakes Christian’s hand. He turns to me and, without preamble or introduction,launches in. “You’re looking well, Ayla. Is Christian here”—he juts his thumb to my husband—“taking care of you?”
I lift a finger to finish my bite and to buy myself some time. “Thank you. And of course.”
“How have you been?” His eyes rake over me intensely as his gaze strays to my hairline.
I don’t like this at all. I know people know. Hell, I’m sure it was in the news, but being questioned at dinner by a nosy man playing nice makes me uncomfortable.
After a sip of water to stall yet again, I reply. “I can’t complain. Though?—”
“Sherman.” Christian’s one word is a warning, and the man looks chastened as he gazes from me to him. “It was great seeing you.”
He’s being dismissed, and we all know it.
“Well, it was good seeing you both.” He turns from Christian to me. “Glad you’re well, Ayla.”
I hold up a hand as Christian begins speaking. “I don’t even want to know. For the first time since this”—I point nonchalantly at my temple with the knife in my left hand—“I’m good with not knowing what that was.” I take another scallop as Christian takes a deep pull of his wine. “Is it untoward to take leftovers from a place this nice?”
A smile spreads wide across my husband’s face. “Baby, we own the place. We can take the whole damn kitchen if we want to. Hell, we can take the chefs, but Corinne wouldn’t be happy.”
“I’m not risking Corinne, but I am taking a to-go box of everything we had.” I point to the gratin potatoes. “And I’m eating those for breakfast tomorrow.”
“Nothing says Irish like potatoes for breakfast.”
I clear my throat. “Uh, the red hair?”
“Okay, potatoes and red hair.”
“Don’t knock the gingers.”
“Princess, the red does it for me, so I’m not knocking it. Until I knock it… then I’ll remind you just how much it does it for me.”
