Page 20 of Fierce

I couldn’t help a shocked little laugh. It was the most human he’d ever sounded. “You don’t?”

“No.” His gaze was rueful now. “Please sit down and have dinner with me.”

I wasn’t moving yet, though. “Only if you’ll promise to slow down. And only if you’ll tell me why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you don’t know how to do a first date.”

“You don’t ask much, do you?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think I do. So will you?”

He sighed again. “Do my best.”

I came back, still moving warily, and sat down feeling a bit better. Not a butterfly. Not a deer. A grown woman.

A distinguished gray-haired man in a dinner jacket appeared after a discreet cough at the door, and I was confused for a moment. Was somebody else joining us? Then he came into the room, Hemi picked up a huge leather-bound menu, and I realized the man was the wine steward.

Oh, man. I was so out of my depth.

Hemi shifted his considerable attention to the wine list, glanced at me, and asked, “Red or white? Or rather, what do you fancy to eat?”

“Um…fish?” Don’t add the question mark. “Fish,” I said with more decision.

“The salmon, perhaps?” the wine steward suggested. “The chef is preparing it tonight with a light buerre blanc. A popular choice with many ladies.”

“Perfect,” I said.

“May I suggest a Chardonnay, then, sir?”

More conferring, and Hemi made his selection, adding, “and bring the lady a clean serviette, please.”

“Of course,” the man said, taking his leave, and I thought about how often I said “of course” in a single workday. How different Hemi’s life was from mine.

“Salmon, then,” the man himself was saying. “And a salad to start, eh.”

I couldn’t imagine how I’d be able to eat, but I said, “Fine.”

He nodded, and when the waiter appeared, Hemi gave him both our orders. It should have bothered me, but it didn’t. Maybe because he’d asked me first.

Another visit by the wine steward, more stylized gestures of offering the label for inspection, opening the bottle, Hemi swirling and sipping. An approving nod from the dark head, and the man was wrapping a linen napkin around the bottle and filling first my glass, then Hemi’s, finally placing the bottle carefully into a pewter ice bucket and making his soft-footed way from the room.

“Well, if the wine’s as impressive as the ceremony,” I said, “I’ll be blown away.”

Hemi’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he held up his glass and asked, “Shall we find out?”

He touched the rim of his glass lightly to mine, caught me in his gaze again, but merely said, “Cheers,” leaving me a bit disappointed.

I forgot that, though, in the next second, because the liquid I was sipping was as unlike anything I’d experienced before as the shoes on my feet were different from the ones in the closet at home. It didn’t even taste like the same beverage. As we drank in silence, the golden liquid sent its heavy, fragrant tendrils curling through me, making me melt a bit. Or maybe that was the music, the candles, the dark wooden walls, the light of the fire. Or, of course, the man opposite me.

“Your face gives everything away,” he said.

“Oh, really?” This time, I smiled at him, and could see him sitting up just a bit straighter. “Whereas yours gives away nothing. What am I saying now?”

“That you’re loving your wine. That it’s lingering on your tongue, sliding down your throat, humming in your veins. Making you relax in spite of yourself, because you’re letting go, surrendering to what you feel.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “I thought you were starting again. Not going to be pushing me.”

---