to his credit, he hadn’t tried to influence her order in any way. There’d been no subtle steering toward so-called healthier options, no pointed references to the salads, none of the food-policing that stung most when it came from people who were supposed to care about her.
Instead, when the discreet server now hovering in their peripheral vision, water jug in hand, had taken her order—the three-course, fixed-price menu—Marcus had merely said it was an excellent decision and ordered the same.
Sometime while they’d been eating, his placid smile had returned. “That was tasty. What did we order for the main course again? More salmon?”
Oh, God. Compared to this meal, the half-life of radium was going to seem short.
Food, she reminded herself. You’re getting amazing food out of this.
“Roasted chicken thighs stuffed with goat cheese and an apricot relish, alongside creamy garlic polenta and sautéed haricot verts with thyme.” She paused. “Oh, and toasted pine nuts . . . somewhere. Probably as part of the relish. I can’t remember for certain.”
He blinked at her.
She lifted a shoulder. “I like food.”
His smile broadened. Warmed his eyes.
“So it seems.” There was no mockery in his voice, at least none that she could detect. Just amusement. “You also have a hell of a memory.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I checked out the restaurant last night. I’m staying in a local hotel while I deep-clean my new apartment, so I had plenty of time to study the menu online.”
“I’m glad you found something you wanted to order.”
He was looking down at his empty plate. When he glanced back up at her, he flicked his fingers through his hair, rumpling it attractively as he positioned his arm in a way that outlined all those muscles she’d admired from the safety of her laptop screen.
And yes, his muscles were still rather impressive in person, and he was very polite, and his hair was thick and golden in the candlelight, but Jesus, the tedium.
For a moment, she contemplated talking about her move, her new job, or anything she was doing over the weekend apart from this dinner, just to pass the time. If the man couldn’t remember either their Twitter exchanges or the food he’d ordered minutes ago, though, that seemed like wasted effort. So instead, the two of them sat in silence once more until Olaf arrived to remove their empty dishes and refill their water glasses.
Immediately after their server’s departure behind a set of swinging doors, arms piled high with plates, a sudden flash of light from the side made her flinch. Turning, she scanned that swath of the restaurant for the source of the white spots now dancing behind her eyelids.
Ah. Of course.
A man at a neighboring table had taken a photo of them with the cell phone he was now hurriedly placing in his lap, safely out of sight. That photo would probably end up on Insta or Twitter within minutes. Maybe less, if they turned their attention from his increasingly red face and he felt free to use his phone once more.
“I was wondering how long it would take,” she murmured.
“Usually people are smart enough not to use their flash in a place like this.” Marcus tilted his head in the direction of the maître d’ station, where the suit-clad man who’d greeted her at the door was now hustling toward their photographer’s table. “The management here values customer privacy and discretion, or at least the appearance thereof.”
If she hadn’t been so curious about the forthcoming confrontation at the other table, she’d have side-eyed Marcus for his choice of words. The appearance thereof?
But she couldn’t spare him that amount of attention, not when the most interesting thing that had happened all night was occurring only feet away. Her elbow propped on the white-tablecloth-covered table, she rested her cheek on her fist and waited for the show to begin.
The maître d’ swooped in and bent low, all sotto voce scolding, only to be met by hushed denials. Eyebrows furrowed in dismay, the man gestured at the phone in his lap, its innocent location apparently meant to serve as incontrovertible proof that he couldn’t possibly have taken a flash photo inside the restaurant.
Marcus’s words were barely audible. “And people call me an actor.”
Finally, after more whispered discussion, the man at the table slid his cell into the inner pocket of his jacket, patting it as if to promise he would keep it there for the rest of the meal. With one final, narrow-eyed look, the maître