Page 67 of So Wild

Salvation had come in the form of the waiter bearing a tray of baked camembert, goose liver pate and toasted sourdough. As he unloaded the delicious-smelling food, Sam’s mouth filled with spit. Between work and nerves about the date, she hadn’t eaten in hours.

Scott held out the cheese knife. “Would you like to go first?”

“If you let me hold the cheese knife, I don’t think this will be dignified.”

He smiled. “Go ahead. Do your worst.”

Sam managed not to attack the camembert with both her hands, but it was hard work. When she cut into it, cheese oozed out like fragrant lava and she made an effort to spread it onto the bread and pair it with the silky red-brown pate and little square of quince paste, instead of just shoving it in her mouth.

“This is amazing,” she said.

“Glad to hear it.” Scott hailed the waiter and ordered a bottle of Bordeaux. When it arrived, he managed to do the whole smelling/tasting/nodding approvingly at the waiter thing, without looking like he was imitating something he’d seen wine-savvy people do.

“You’re legitimately classy now, aren’t you?” Sam teased, scraping up the last of the cheese and eating it off the tiny knife. “What happened to the boy who used to throw water balloons full of dishwashing liquid at me?”

“He grew up. A small amount at any rate.”

Throughout their entrees and mains, they managed to keep conversation light, discussing books and current events and carefully avoiding those topics peppered with unexploded landmines—childhood, family, school and business. Despite the invisible boundaries around them, Sam enjoyed talking to Scott. He was a good listener and as she talked animatedly about her fascination with polar bears, she realised something simple. She was glad to see Scott again. Whatever happened between them going forward, she was glad she could lay the memory of their complicated past to rest. She was this tattooed woman now and he was this well-dressed man who liked chips and everything was just…okay between them. Everything was good.

“Are you still hungry?” Scott asked. “We can get dessert, if you like. I think there’s a citron tart on the special’s board?”

Sam considered it, but truthfully she didn’t want more food. It was high time the purging—the real reason for this date—commenced. She leaned forward across the table, knowing it made her top gape. “Are there other options?”

“There might be,” Scott said, refusing to glance at her cleavage. “What do you feel like doing?”

“What about finding a quiet place to discuss what we did in your car?”

He met her gaze and the space between them heated as tangibly as though someone had lit a bonfire. “That could be arranged.”

Sam liked the threatening note beneath his posh accent. As though she was going to pay for her flirtations in all the right ways. “Any location recommendations?”

She expected him to suggest his apartment, but instead he cleared this throat. “I, uh, booked a room at the Windsor.”

“Oh, did you now? High expectations.”

Scott’s cheeks turned pink. “I don’t want to pressure you, I just thought the neutral territory might make this a little…simpler.”

And there it was again, the reminder their past was fraught with unresolved issues. Sam touched her fingers to her lips. “What would you do if I said I didn’t want to go back to your hotel room with you?”

“Then I’ll go back there alone,” he said at once. “I love hotel rooms. They have lovely baths and it doesn’t matter how much mess I make in them.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, partly because the image of Scott Sanderson sprawled out in a hotel bathrobe was too adorable, mostly because she could tell he meant it. He wasn’t counting on sleeping with her tonight. He’d simply taken precautions and was allowing her to make the choice. She smiled at him. “I think we should get out of here. Two people can make twice the mess in a hotel room, you know.”

“Here’s hoping.” Scott raised a hand in the air so that the waiter magically appeared at his side. As he sorted the bill, Sam excused herself to go to the bathroom. She was washing her hands in the sink, humming a little when a short blonde waitress entered. Sam moved aside to give her room to get into the toilet, but she didn’t move.

“Are you Samantha DaSilva?”

Sam frowned. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“I have a message from your sister, Nicole. She says you don’t have a phone and she needs to tell you something.”

“Okay…what does she want?”

The waitress looked around ostentatiously, as though Russian spies might be hiding in the walls. “It’s a bit weird. ‘Don’t go home with Scott.’”

“What? Why the hell did she tell you that?”

“Um, she said his signature was on the application for the heritage listing and he and his dad were the ones who lodged the application. She thinks he asked you out tonight—”

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