Page 37 of Legally Mine

Chapter 9

On Friday, I found myself standing outside of The Martin, one of the nicest restaurants in Boston. Built on top of a dock overlooking Boston Harbor, it was the kind of place that had complimentary valet parking and a carpeted sidewalk leading to a pair of big brass doors. The waiters all dressed like the penguins in Mary Poppins, and the staff included not one but three sommeliers.

Through the glass panes in the doors twinkled chandeliers hanging from high-beamed ceilings. The prismatic light seemed to reflect off the equally bright array of restaurant patrons. This was the kind of place where the wealthy went to show off their goods while they wined and dined their peers, other equally wealthy customers. Senators and congressional representatives ate here, right along with college presidents and CEOs. Old money mixed with new, all of it in the interest of making more.

So what was I doing here?

A doorman ushered me inside, and I held my breath until I was all the way across the threshold. I had known it would be like this: formal and slightly overwhelming. There had been complete radio silence from Brandon all week, but I had received two more polite phone calls from his assistant, Margie, on Wednesday and Thursday to confirm the date. We were playing a telephonic game of Owl, and neither of us had blinked first.

So, I had dressed for battle, the kind that required the tiny diamond studs in my ears and the expensive silver bracelet Brandon had given me, easily the nicest thing I owned. I had dressed simply in good fabric and clean lines: a floaty, black silk dress that tied at my waist but flashed a bit of leg when I walked and my favorite black Manolo Blahnik pumps that had taken me six months to save for. My bright red hair was pinned up, with just a few tendrils having escaped en route to the restaurant. After lining my eyes with black and taking extra effort to use the oxblood lipstick I only wore on special occasions, I had thought I'd looked good when I'd left the apartment. Eric's begrudging praise had only made me feel more confident.

But standing in this restaurant, surrounded by men in three-thousand-dollar suits and women with jewelry that flashed from across the room, I felt very, very plain.

"Can I help you?"

A maître d' dressed in an all-black suit looked at me lazily from his desk. His glance took in my appearance, resting a moment at my neck, which, unlike the rest of his female customers', was completely bare.

"Um, yes," I said, stumbling slightly as I approached. I had arrived early, hoping to have time to find my bearings before dealing with Brandon. "Reservation under Sterling."

The maître d's eyes opened wide at the name; whether in surprise or recognition, I couldn't tell.

"Of course, miss," he said, now obedient and eager to please. "Your party has been waiting for you."

Shit. Apparently Brandon had had the same idea.

The maître 'd hustled around, eager to escort me to a table in the back of the crowded restaurant. Somewhat reluctantly, I followed him. Were the restaurant patrons actually glancing at me, wondering what I was doing there? Or was I imagining it? I desperately hoped for the latter.

Brandon sat at a table in the far corner like a king presiding over his court. It was clearly the best spot in the place, a table for two slightly secluded in a small alcove away from the masses of people all chattering over their dinners. He was clearly still recognized, however. As I approached, several nearby customers watched from over their plates of steak and lobster, leaning over to whisper once they knew where I was headed. This time I was certain I wasn't imagining the curious looks.

Brandon sat with his back to the corner, watching intently as I approached. It really wasn't fair, I thought, that the man looked progressively better every time I saw him. He wore a sapphire-blue suit and cognac-colored oxfords that would have looked a bit gaudy on anyone else, but somehow just looked sophisticated on Brandon. A crisp white shirt only emphasized his tanned, chiseled features, shaved but for a light five o'clock shadow. His hair, always a bit unruly, was now combed back into soft waves that framed his face like a golden corona. His blue eyes somehow managed to flash, even in the dim lighting of the restaurant.

He stood as I reached the table. Yeah, that suit looked even better when I got the full body view.

"Skylar," he said as he looked at me with poorly masked appreciation. "You look...great."

I looked down at my simple outfit, then back up. "It's just a black dress."

A broad hand clasped my waist as Brandon leaned in to kiss my cheek. My knees buckled, but he held me up. The rasp of his stubble sent goosebumps up and down my arms, and the familiar scent of almonds, soap, and Brandon made my heart thump. It really wasn't fair the way he could do that.

"You'd stop traffic in a trash bag," he said as he leaned away and, to my irritating regret, dropped his hand. "Shall we?"

I accepted the seat the maître 'd pulled out for me, unaccountably nervous with the formality. I knew that years in a very wealthy, corporate world would have trained him well when it came to social niceties, but this wasn't the Brandon I really knew. The Brandon I knew was happier with pizza than ossobuco. The Brandon I knew preferred jeans to a three-piece suit. The Brandon I knew was just a local boy from South Boston, not this pristine man buried in pomp and circumstance.

Had that all just been an act? The thought was saddening.

Brandon retook his seat with a boyish grin that revealed his dimples, and I couldn't help but smile back. But this was weird. It was weird being this close to one another, this unsure of what to say.

"I––ah––" Brandon cleared his throat awkwardly. "Thanks for coming tonight."

I cocked my head. "Well, you didn't really give me a choice, did you?"

He smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, about that. I'm sorry. I just...I really wasn't expecting to see you in that office. And after what had happened the night before, I was still kind of upset."

"Yeah," I said. "Well. It's kind of your thing."

"What's my thing?"

"The railroading." I shrugged, opening up my menu. Everything was written in French.

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