“This view is beautiful,” she says conversationally.
I join her at the edge of the balcony. I’m not ready to talk about the weather or the view or some other mundane bullshit like that.
I want to talk about her.
“Not compared to you.”
She stiffens again. “Stop.”
“Why?”
She shakes her head, still refusing to look at me. Still refusing to answer. Still refusing to let me in. “Why did you want to have dinner out here?”
I gesture to the view before us. “Isn’t this explanation enough?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I mean, why this formal dinner? Why ask me to dress up? Why just the two of us? I know your brother is here—why isn’t he joining us?”
I glance at her. “I thought it was a good idea that we talk.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
She sighs. “‘Everything’ is a lot to ask of one dinner.”
“We have to start somewhere.”
“Cillian…”
I cut her off before she says something that will be counterproductive. “Let’s eat,” I suggest. “Might as well enjoy the food before we end up arguing.”
She smiles at that and gives me a small nod.
Taking her hand, I lead her to the table set up right behind us. I pull out her chair and she settles into it with a murmured thanks.
The moment we’re both seated, the maids approach with closed cloches and champagne on ice.
“Champagne?” Saoirse mumbles in shock when she notices.
I grin. “Why not?”
She eyes me suspiciously. I feel a smidgeon of doubt. Maybe I should have tried a more subtle approach.
But given the time restraints involved, I figured it was either go big or go home.
Since when have I ever done things any other way?
The dinner comes in savory waves.
We enjoy salmon and caviar, lobster and tuna ceviche, and a magnificent braised lamb in a red wine jus. Throughout the meal, I manage to finish three glasses of champagne, while Saoirse conservatively sips through her first glass.
We keep the conversation light and safe. But I can sense the underlying nerves that pervade the entire meal. Almost like avoiding any serious topic is taking up significant amounts of concentration from the both of us.
“I gotta say,” she breathes when our dishes are cleared away, “that was without a doubt the most amazing meal I’ve ever had.”
I smile. “Why, thank you. I cooked it all myself. Microwave technology is really amazing these days.”
She laughs. “So you’re a chef, too, huh?”