Page 140 of Are You There, Moriarty?

“Oh, hell yes,” I said, checking him out. He was wearing a navy-blue tuxedo ensemble, with a white shirt and light-blue waistcoat embroidered with silver. There was even a bowtie and a light-blue pocket square.

“No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head and walking toward me, and for a split second I thought he didn’t like the dress. “How can you possibly be this stunning?”

He held out his hand for mine and spun me around, his expression ecstatic.

“You look incredible. You’re not tucking, are you?”

“No. But I am wearing panties. They’re keeping the goods together.”

“Well, you look fucking edible.”

“Perfect. Because at some point tonight, I’m going to want you to eat me.”

He chuckled and took my chin in his hand, examining my face. “Nice eye shadow.”

“Thanks.”

I’d lined my eyes with kohl but added sparkly silver shadow and a touch of blush on my cheekbones. I’d done my hair in a pompadour style. I looked smashing, and I was glad Alastair appreciated it.

We ordered an Uber and got to the Chateau by six-thirty.

I was busy taking selfies and texting with Esther while Alastair checked us in. Only when we got off the elevator on the sixth floor and stopped in front of the door did I realize—

“This is the same room,” I said.

He simply smiled and swiped his key card, pushing the door open.

I stood there gazing at the familiar space, which now contained a large gift basket wrapped in cellophane.

“Oooh, what’s that? Is there chocolate in there?”

“Of course there’s chocolate in there, Toby. It’s for you.”

“It is?”

“Yes,” he said, gazing at me warmly. “Happy hookup anniversary.”

“Wait! Is it?

“It’s been exactly eleven weeks and three days. Almost three whole months.”

“Impressive,” I said. “I didn’t get you anything.”

He smiled and pulled me forward. “I’ll collect my gift later, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I don’t think I mind at all.”

* * * *

I’d hate to say I was surprised that nobody at the restaurant put up a fuss about a guy in a sexy dress, but it threw me. I was absolutely ready to counter any ill-informed comments with icy politeness and an explanation as to the un-gendered nature of clothing, but I didn’t need to. Sure, Ottawa was conservative compared to Montreal or Toronto, but downtown, in a classy establishment like the restaurant at the Chateau, my dress was a non-issue.

Alastair impressed me by pulling out my chair.

“Thanks, darling,” I said. “You’re a peach.”

He rolled his eyes at my overacting and sat in the chair opposite me, steepling his hands and mouthing “Behave.”

I gave him a saucy look and picked up my menu.

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