Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,70
kind of place Reagan had said he didn’t eat at. He tossed me a wry “what can you do” look. I laughed in turn, and we went in together, his hand at the small of my back.
The hostess led us to a table in a back room, past fountains with fish in it and tables covered in crisp white linens and set with multiple forks, spoons, and knives. It took effort not to roll my eyes at how pretentious it was. Though maybe my cynicism was just a cover for my nerves, which were churning.
As soon as we went in the room, a man who looked to be in his sixties approached us. Well, no. He approached Reagan, holding both hands out to grab my boyfriend’s. My suit was nice, but his looked nice. The kind of nice that cost more than half a year’s rent for me. He had a full head of hair that was a lustrous white. Everything about him was cultured and elegant.
“Reagan,” he said in greeting and my hackles rose because damned if it didn’t sound like a purr.
I will not be a jealous boyfriend. I do not need to mark my territory. Reagan loves me.
Reagan gave a careful smile and pulled me forward. “Professor, this is Channing.”
Whoa. There was no way this man was the professor Reagan had told me about. My mind did calculations and I realized he had to be in his seventies. I peered more closely at the face, trying to see signs of surgery that could account for the youthful appearance. The professor looked at me then, and his eyes widened in surprise...and lust. His gaze crawled over me, and I itched under the intensity and confidence of his stare.
Just when I felt my cheeks starting to burn, Reagan dropped a reassuring arm over my shoulder, pulling me close. The professor tilted his head in a nod.
“Got it,” he said with a laugh. “Well, it is nice to meet you, Channing. You are both unexpected and entirely welcome. Please, both of you call me Ian, as neither of you are my students.”
I bit my tongue. I didn’t want to be on a first-name basis with him; I wanted to throttle him and demand if he knew what damage he’d done to Reagan. But I didn’t because I didn’t want to do anything that could ruin this for Reagan. There was no denying the excitement that was rolling off of him in barely contained waves, and I wanted to support him.
The professor led us to the table and spit out a bunch of names that went in one ear and out the other before we were seated, and I couldn’t help but notice that Ian placed Reagan beside himself, leaving me on Reagan’s other side and the far left of the table. The woman at the corner was more interested in her conversation with another woman than speaking to me. It was both a relief and a slight that left me reaching for my wine glass, which I discovered had been filled with red.
And so began the longest dinner of my life. The plates were so small it seemed difficult to believe anyone could get full off the “food” presented on them. The waiters presented each dish like it was art, speaking in terms that meant little to me and brandishing the food with relish. There were, like, two bites of food per plate and too many minutes between courses.
Reagan was so engaged in conversation with Ian and the others that he barely glanced my way the entire time. I sat back and watched, my suit feeling too tight.
They spoke about his old art, and it struck me that he hadn’t let on how popular he’d been. Famous, really. It was nice to see how much they appreciated him—he deserved it—but I couldn’t participate in these sorts of conversations. I felt like an extra wheel, there with no real purpose, and it was becoming difficult to understand why Reagan had brought me. But I tried to let it go. He’s finally the center of the room and not the wallflower. I need to let him have this.
I tried to shoulder my way into the group, attempting to throw a few one-liners into the conversation, but the people fawning over him barely offered me a glance. The conversation was fast and quippy and far over my head. They spoke about artists and styles they admired and none of it sounded remotely familiar