over where to grab dinner. Boston has an energy I love, which is why I’ve never lived anywhere else. I doubt I ever will.
Approaching the ornate front doors, which appear to be more of a statement than a necessity, I start to pull them open when I stop, staring at myself in the reflective glass. Inadequacy washes over me. I’m about to walk into a restaurant where the price tag on most dishes is more than my mortgage. I don’t even want to consider how much the bottle of wine we’ll have is going to cost. Everyone will be wearing the latest fashion trends from designers whose names have more vowels than I can pronounce. My simple black dress came from a sales rack at a discount clothing store. Will I ever feel like I measure up?
I fill my lungs with air, doing my best to ward off my nerves. I’ve been on dozens of dates like this one. Tonight is no different. But I still can’t shake the feeling deep in my bones that everything’s about to change.
Resolved and calm, I open the door. The instant I cross the threshold, the hustle of downtown Boston disappears, the sound of cars and horns replaced with forks scraping against fine china, low conversation, and ostentation. Such is the life I’ve been immersed in since agreeing to that first date. I thought things would be different, that we’d be a normal couple who went to the movies or bowling. Then again, we aren’t most couples. He isn’t like most men. I’m still not sure whether that’s a good thing.
“Bonsoir,” the pretentious ma?tre d’ greets in a heavy French accent. “Welcome to La Grenouille.”
“I’m meeting someone here. He may have already arrived.”
“Mademoiselle Tanner?” He lifts a brow, surveying my attire.
“That’s me.”
“Magnifique. Your date is waiting. Follow me.”
He turns from me, neither smiling nor frowning, and leads me into the intimate dining area. Heavenly aromas assault my nose, making my stomach growl. Steak. Scallops. Garlic. The tables are filled with people enjoying the most delectable food presented so beautifully, you almost hate to eat it.
As I walk farther into the dining room, blue eyes catch mine and my initial worry about tonight disappears. He seems so informal, as if he isn’t sitting at a table in a restaurant where a membership fee is required to even dine. Standing, he re-secures the button on his suit jacket, a smile building on his lips. He shaved his face and trimmed his dark hair, but there are still a few curls hanging over his collar.
“My beautiful Brooklyn,” his smooth, deep voice murmurs in the refined Georgia accent that soothes and pacifies me. He leans forward and kisses my cheek, then lingers for a moment, inhaling a deep breath. “You look incredible. And you smell even better.”
I close my eyes, allowing his words to bathe me with a momentary feeling of contentment. It’s not a butterfly-inducing, can’t eat, can’t sleep sensation I feel deep in my bones. There’s only been one person who’s ever made me react that way.
“Thank you, Wes.” I pull back. “You clean up nice, too.” I wink.
The perfect gentleman, he holds my chair out for me, helping me into it. Once I’m settled, the ma?tre d’ places my napkin in my lap. Apparently, those who run five-star restaurants don’t believe we can take care of that small movement ourselves. It’s just another thing I’ve grown accustomed to since I began dating Weston James Bradford.
“How did court go?” he asks after a few moments of awkward silence. I know not to even bother asking for a menu. Wes has likely already ordered for both of us. When we first started dating, I considered it archaic and overbearing. Now it’s just part of what it means to date him. He enjoys taking care of me, making sure all my needs are met. And if he wants to order for me, I won’t complain. He’s yet to choose something I don’t like.
I reach for my glass of sparkling water and take a sip, then return it to the table. “As good as can be expected, I suppose, especially when you’re telling the judge the biological parent shouldn’t get physical custody of their children yet, and that parent is sitting in the courtroom shooting daggers at you.”
His hand clasps around mine, compassion in his gaze. “I understand how hard that must be.”
I smile, biting back my remark that he has no idea how difficult it truly is. Sure,