All They Need - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,45
short drive. Flynn found a parking spot close to their destination and ushered Mel into what looked like an old-school pub. Inside, however, the building had been gutted. The traditional wood bar and sticky carpet had been ripped out and replaced with concrete everything. The floor was polished concrete, while huge feature concrete arches marched down one side of the room, and on the other side a vast concrete bar dominated the space. The seating was equally modern—white Saarinen tulip chairs with alternating acid-yellow and hot-pink cushions—and the art on the walls was edgy and abstract, with big slashes of black with dripping red and more acid-yellow.
It was incredibly noisy and filled with a laughing, well-dressed crowd—trust-fund kids who didn’t have to work, minor celebrities and businesspeople who still had time for long lunches. Not exactly the venue he would have chosen for what he hoped would be an intimate lunch with Mel.
A thin, austere-looking woman approached, arching an eyebrow. “Can I help you?” she asked, her tone implying she would prefer to do anything but.
Flynn had been eating in places like this since he was in short pants and he ignored her attitude. “Table for two. Under the name of Randall.”
She perked up predictably at the mention of the R word and they were soon being whisked to a small side table. It was only when he was seated opposite her that he saw how tense Mel was. Her gaze bounced around the room uneasily, and when the waitress returned with their menus she ducked her head and murmured her thanks.
He frowned, watching her rather than the waitress as the other woman launched into a lengthy rundown of the day’s specials and the wine list. Mel made a show of listening, but he could tell she’d tuned out.
“Thank God,” he said the moment the waitress left. “That was like listening to the begat part of the Bible. Corn-fed spatchcock begat braised witloof begat roasted baby beets begat brandied goat’s cheese—”
She choked on the mouthful of water she was swallowing.
“Are you all right? Should I come around and Heimlich you?” he offered.
“I don’t think you can Heimlich for fluids.” She coughed.
“Good point.” He watched sympathetically as she finally got a grip.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
Her daze darted around the restaurant again, almost as though she was checking to see if anyone was watching. Her fingers pleated the edge of her linen napkin, folding it back and forth, back and forth.
“Do you have any idea what you’d like?” he asked.
“I’m not sure…?.”
He asked if she wanted wine but it was very loud thanks to all the concrete and she had to ask him to repeat himself twice. Over at the bar, a woman laughed, the sound not unlike an excited hyena.
He looked at Mel. She had her best game face on, but his gut told him she was deeply uncomfortable. Hell, he was uncomfortable. He’d wanted to treat her, to give her a nice experience and, yes, to show off a little. Instead, he’d landed them in the middle of the sort of trendy, pretentious eatery he usually avoided like the plague.
He made eye contact with her across the table and decided to take a gamble.
“Okay, I’m just going to put it out there,” he said, leaning forward so he could be heard over the din. “There’s this really great burger joint around the corner from the office. They make their own relish and instead of buns they use—”
“Let’s go,” Mel said, already reaching for her coat.
He laughed. “That bad, huh?”
“I really like burgers.”
She was being diplomatic, he knew. They stood and he helped her into her jacket. The waitress approached and he told her that they’d changed their minds. His hand on the small of Mel’s back, he guided her toward the door.
They were almost home free when he felt her muscles tense beneath his hand. He glanced at her face and saw that her eyes had gone blank. For a moment he didn’t understand. Then he felt someone staring at him and glanced toward the bar.
Owen Hunter stood amongst a group of suits, a glass of wine in hand, his gaze pinned to them. He looked shocked. And, unless Flynn was wildly mistaken, angry.
Mel lengthened her stride, reaching the door and exiting into the cool winter air ahead of him. He gave her a moment to compose herself before touching her arm.
“You okay?”
“Yes. Of course,” she said, but her voice sounded hoarse, strained.
Flynn’s hand found the small of her back again and