I smile, hoping he takes my blush for shyness instead of excitement at the prospect of being with him for even longer – and the thought of having pleasure together. “Then, lead the way,” I say, which is the most gracious thing I can think of and prevents me from embarrassing myself even further by getting too tongue-tied.
Oz really does lead the way out onto the street, but out there, we fall into an easy rhythm of walking side by side. A couple of times I almost feel the urge to reach out and take his hand again – to make it look like an accident or something, to just let our fingers brush and see how he reacts. But I don’t, because I know I’m getting way ahead of myself. Lost in a fantasy.
We make small talk as we walk down the street, the weather is cooler than I’m used to but warmer than I expected. It’s not raining, which just about destroys the stereotype of London I have in my mind. When I mention this, Oz laughs.
“You wanted it to be raining?” he asks.
“Well, only because that’s always how it looks on TV,” I say.
He chuckles again. “I can’t imagine coming here from sunny California and actually wanting it to be raining,” he says. He makes a half-turn to the side, putting an arm out to steer me, and for a second I have no idea why. We’re next to a big, ornate building that…
That seems to house a restaurant.
Here?
There’s a doorman at the door, who opens it up for us with a gloved hand and nods at Oz. “Mr. Patterson,” he says, his voice deep and sober.
“Thank you,” Oz says cheerfully, and as if this is a completely normal turn of events.
I’m stunned – so floored I can’t even react. We can’t possibly be going here, can we? I wasn’t expecting this – just a local place with cheap and cheerful food.
But now I’m stepping through the doors into a small space dotted with just a few tables, all of them occupied by people who look much better dressed than me – and I realize that this is real. We’re eating here, in this place.
And I try not to look horrified at the thought of how much all of this is going to cost.
Chapter Six
Oz
I settle Gabriella at a table near the kitchen – one of the preferential spots since the chef is known for coming out personally to make sure the food is served to perfection – and take my seat opposite her. I can’t help but smile with excitement, but it changes to a frown when I realize that she doesn’t look quite as excited as I feel.
In fact, she looks downright nervous.
“Are you alright?” I ask, leaning over the table to keep my voice low. The waiter has disappeared to leave us with the menus, but this is a cozy space, and I don’t want to embarrass her by having the question overheard.
“This is too much,” she whispers, her eyes flashing with alarm. “When you said a local restaurant, I didn’t think…”
I grin, realizing that’s all it is. “Relax,” I tell her. “Like I said, the chef is a friend of mine. And it’s my treat. Believe me, somewhere like this, no one is paying attention to anyone else. All we’ll have room for in our attention is the food. You’ll see what I mean when it gets here.”
There – that should take care of any of her concerns. I’ve covered the fact that it usually takes a long wait to get in here, the cost of the food, and that she might feel underdressed or out of place somewhere like this. Not that she should. Not that anyone should, but especially not her. She’s like a princess. She deserves to have the very best of everything. This place should be lucky to have her.
“Are you sure?” she asked, still leaning forward a little, her elbows resting daintily on the table.
Ah. So it’s definitely the money that hits her as the biggest issue.
“I’m the host here, remember?” I tell her with a smile. “I wouldn’t be doing my fair city justice if I just took you to a chain restaurant that you could get anywhere in the UK. They’re all full of tourists there, anyway.”
She chuckles a little at that, seeming to relax. “I’ve just… never been somewhere like this before.”
“I know,” I say, easily, letting the teasing words roll off my tongue. “They don’t have anywhere else like this, anywhere in the world.”
She shakes her head with a grin, the teasing allowing the tension to break. “So, you know the chef? What’s good here?”
“Everything,” I say, which is no exaggeration. I tap the menu resting on the table, which is only one page long. “But seriously, I don’t know. They change the menu every week or so. That’s one of the joys of coming here. You never know what you’re going to get.”