Still, I read a review about this new hotel and restaurant, and apparently the steak is good. That is as fine a reason as any to go out. I turn off my phone as the car pulls up to the hotel, not wanting to be distracted tonight. I need to observe this woman, take her in, see if we’d make a good match.
I don’t have the energy to do this many times so I sure as hell hope Grace is as good a matchmaker as her client reviews would have me believe.
When I get to the restaurant, I take a deep breath, tell myself to act like I do when I’m in a meeting — listen more than talk, get a read on the person sitting across the table. Don’t show my hand, hold my cards close. It’s what has gotten me where I am ever since Margene … and I will use those same tactics tonight.
A hostess leads the way when I tell her I’m meeting someone here at six o’clock. “Is she here yet?” I ask.
The hostess shakes her head as she shows me the table. I take a menu but don’t read it. I know what I want, having looked online ahead of time. “I’ll take a bottle of the Oregon Syrah,” I say. Knowing what I want is essential to keep my life on the path I have chosen. I follow that advice when I order, and when I make any decision.
The bottle comes, and so does a basket of bread — which I leave untouched. Twenty minutes pass and I’m ready to call Grace a goddamn scam artist when the room seems to still; to pause. Everyone seems to turn their head at the same time as the most exquisite woman I’ve ever seen walks toward me.
“Are you my date?” she asks, looking down at me. “From Grace’s?”
I nod. “You’re late.”
She laughs. It’s more than a laugh though. It’s fresh air. It’s electric. Unnerving.
“And I suppose you want me to apologize?” She waves her hand in the air. “Sorry, I’m not that kind of girl. I learned a long time ago to never say I’m sorry for things I’m not actually sorry for.” She sits in the chair the waitress pulls out for her and she reaches for my glass of wine. She takes a long gulp before setting it down and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
I’m transfixed.
“Syrah? Really?” She wiggles her shoulders. “I’m a Cab Sav girl myself.” She opens the wine menu and points to a bottle. The waitress smiles, and says she’ll be right back. “Anyways, I’ve had a hell of a day. Like, literally a complete clusterfuck.” She presses a hand to her lips, laughing. “My mother would be mortified if she knew I just said fuck to you.” She laughs, dropping her chin into her hand, elbow resting on the white table linens. “Anyways, it’s been a serious disaster. I was supposed to be in this show next door, blah, blah, blah, got cancelled, I had a meltdown, took a shower, insert wine—” She lifts my glass. “—and so here we are. I’m Imogen Branch by the way.”
I can’t look away. I mean, I don’t even want to look away.
“I’m Neil.”
She smiles, the kind of smile that is full of secrets. It’s rattling, a smile like that, because I don’t want to have to try and read between the lines. I want black and white and she’s neither, yet this woman is still the opposite of gray. She has on red lipstick and an even redder dress and my cock has been twitching since this creature sat down. I don’t know what to do except lean in. So I do.
The waitress returns with Imogen’s wine, and when I order a steak, medium rare, Imogen grimaces. “I’m a vegetarian,” she explains.
Of course she is.
“So, Grace?” she starts. “You hired a matchmaker?”
“Do you really want to discuss that?” I ask. I don’t want to talk about the bubbly Grace Graham. Not when Imogen is sitting across from me.
She laughs, reaching for the bread. Smothering it in butter. Shoving it into her heart-shaped lips. “Oh my god, this is so good. Ohhh God,” she moans. “It’s better than the orgasm I gave myself before coming here.”
I choke on my wine, coughing into my hand.
“Fuck — now if Mom knew I said that.” Imogen licks her lips. “Gah! I told you, it’s been a rough day.”
“I’m sorry it’s been a shit day,” I tell her, and I mean it. God knows I’ve had plenty of those myself.
She sighs, leaning back in the chair, looking me over. “I overshare when I get nervous.”
“And you’re nervous now?”
She bites her lip, shaking her head, whimpering. “So nervous. I never date grown up men who like, order steak and...” She circles her hand, pointing at me. “...wear suits and shave and are on time. Men who order Syrah.”