Two Last First Dates Page 16

  He felt it, too.

  He picked up the menu and opened it. “Now, let me guess what you want to order.” I watched, smiling, as he scanned the page. “Aha, I think you’ll go for the salmon to start, followed by the fish or . . . no, definitely the fish.”

  I opened my own menu to look at the options. Although I could eat it all, pan-fried Terakihi with couscous and asparagus was indeed my preference.

  “How did you do that?”

  He opened his arms, palms up. “It’s a gift.”

  Our waiter arrived, and we placed our orders: a hot smoked salmon to start with, followed by pork belly with apple fritters on a bed of wilted spinach for Marcus, and the pan-fried Terakihi with couscous and asparagus for me.

  “Would you like to share a bottle of white?” I nodded at him, smiling. A bottle of wine would make this evening even more romantic.

  Marcus discussed wine options with the waiter and placed his order before returning his attention to me.

  “Tell me about your day,” he said.

  “Oh, I went on a run with . . . someone. It was nice.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “A guy someone?”

  Was Marcus jealous? “What if it was?” I teased.

  “I might have to kill him, that’s all.”

  I laughed, enjoying our light and fun conversation—even if it was about murdering poor Josh.

  After a while, I excused myself to “freshen up”—girl-code for have a pee and check my makeup. I walked out of the velvet-curtained sanctuary and into the restaurant, scanning the room for the sign. Spotting it at the back, I made my way around the tables, impressed with how busy this place was.

  I pulled the door open to the Ladies and came face-to-face with a glamorously dressed woman with cropped hair, big blue eyes, and red, glossy lips. My heart leapt into my mouth. It was my old boss, Princess Portia de Havilland.

  “Paige! Oh, how lovely to see you. You look”—her eyes ran over my outfit, making me want to wrap my arms around myself and hide from her judgemental eyes—“well, you look the same. How are things with you?”

  “Great! Amazing, in fact! Yes, that’s what they are, a-mazing.”

  She arched an eyebrow. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that, arch just one brow. That one gesture says so much, don’t you think? Of course, Portia could arch one of her perfectly groomed brows at me, questioning me, judging me, telling me she didn’t believe a word I was saying, all with one, simple gesture.

  Where was Helena and her Tarantino-style attitude when I needed her?

  I was still holding the door open, wishing I wasn’t here, when a woman behind me said, “Pardon me.” I stood back, muttering an apology, and Portia followed me out into the foyer.

  “Now, tell me, do you have another job yet?” she asked, her head cocked to the side, her face a study in concern—totally fake, of course.

  “Yes, I’m helping a friend out right now, doing some marketing work for her business, and I have an interview for another job next week, so lots of things going on for me.”

  “Oh, and here I was thinking you were working in a café. I must have got that wrong.”

  “Yes, yes, you must.” I smiled at her, half hoping the floor would open and swallow me whole. Being digested by a floor monster was preferable to this Portia-induced hell.

  “Well, I got engaged.” Portia bandied her left hand at me. I had to blink to take in the size of the rock on her ring finger.

  “Wow. Well, congratulations.” Poor guy. I wondered whether I should let him know what he was getting himself in to?

  “Thanks. I’m here drinking champagne with the girls to celebrate. Cristal, of course.”

  I nodded at her. “Of course.” Wasn’t Cristal the pimps’ champagne? Or was that something else? Only getting to drink the stuff occasionally myself, I wouldn’t have a clue.

  “Well, I must get back to them. We’ve decided to dine here, after all. Jean-Luc, the maître d’ is a dear, sweet friend, and he sneaked us in. Isn’t that marvelous?”

  “Yes, it’s . . . marvelous.” God, was I thankful for our private dining room. Having to look at Portia sip champagne and name-drop all night with her equally vacuous gal pals would be enough to put me off my food.

  “Good luck with that job of yours, Paige. Ciao-ciao.” She air-kissed me.

  “Ciao,” I echoed, hating myself for it, as I watched Portia saunter away, her heels clicking on the hardwood floors, her sequined skirt glinting in the light.

  I shuddered, thankful the encounter was over and I could now visit the Ladies in peace.

  When I returned to the table, Marcus was scanning his phone, a half-drunk glass of wine in front of him.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said as I sat down in my seat.

  He raised his glass. “To us.”

  I followed suit, clinking my glass against his, our eyes locked. “To us.” I took a sip, the cool liquid slipping down my throat and warming my belly, thoughts of Patronizing Portia vanishing from my mind.

  We ate our appetizers and talked about a whole host of things: from his law practice to his love of yachting, from his family (one of four boys, all very competitive and high achieving) to his boarding school (missed his mother but “made him into the man he is today”). He was very open and happy to talk about anything, making me feel relaxed and comfortable in his presence.

  By the time the waiter delivered our main course, conversation turned to my career once more.

  “Have you made any progress on the job front?” Marcus asked before taking a bite of his pork. “Oh, this is good. Try it.” He sliced off a piece and offered it to me. I wrapped my lips around his fork, enjoying the flavors, and the intimacy.

  “Mm, so good. Here, try mine.” I followed suit, offering up a forkful.

  “Wow, now I have order envy.”

  We ate our meals, enjoying one another’s company, the food delicious, the environment divine. After my final mouthful, I said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. When I went to the Ladies before I had the worst experience. My old boss is here, and she’s just as ghastly as she always was. Portia de Havilland. God, she makes me want to hit something.”

  “Portia de Havilland?”

  He said it in such a way as to make me wonder if he knew her. “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “No, no. It’s just quite a name, isn’t it? She could be a character in a book.”

  “Or better yet, a Tarantino movie where a couple of gangsters track her down and torture her, dumping her body in the harbor.”

  Marcus laughed. “You don’t like her much, do you?”

  “Sorry. I went a little too far, didn’t I?” I scrunched up my face, and Marcus nodded. “But to be fair, she’s a pretty horrible person. You know how people say someone ‘upwardly manages’? Well, I think the term was invented for her, she spent so much time sucking up to the bosses. She brandished her gaudy ring in my face.”

  Marcus finished what was left of his dinner. “She’s engaged?”

  “Of course. A rock the size of a small country in Europe. She’s having dinner here with a bunch of girlfriends.”

  “Are you all done there?”

  I placed my silverware together in the middle of my plate, the way Dad had taught me when I was a kid. “Yes, thank you. It was delicious.”

  “How about we go get dessert at that place on Fort Street?”

  “Sure.” I liked the idea of walking through the city streets on Marcus’s arm.

  “Okay. How about I settle up and I’ll meet you out front?”

  When I got outside, my dream of going for a walk was spoiled by the rain, monsoon-like in its intensity. That’s the thing about Auckland: it can start out cold, warm up to hot during the day, then rain clouds roll in out of nowhere. You have to carry three different outfits with you at all times to deal with it.

  I stood under the restaurant’s canopy, waiting for Marcus, wishing I had some sort of tiny umbrella in my clutch that could unfold into a golf-sized one
for us both to huddle under. It would be so romantic to wander the streets of Auckland together.

  “Darn it, it’s raining,” Marcus said, pointing out the obvious. “Let’s drive, my car’s on the other side of the road.” He took my hand in his, and we dashed across the street together, me holding my small clutch up over my head in a completely vain attempt to stop my hair from getting wet.

  Once in the car—a sleek, black European model of some sort, low to the ground—the doors safely closing the rain out, Marcus switched on the ignition and turned and smiled at me. “Let me guess your favorite dessert.”

  “Bet you can’t.”

  “I did pretty well on the dinner, don’t you think?”

  “True. But maybe your psychic powers are limited to the savory,” I teased.

  He put the car in gear. “I would say you’re a chocolate girl. Anything with chocolate, preferably some sort of mousse with chocolate wafers.”

  Wrong. “Actually, I’m more of a lemon-y dessert girl. And my favorite cake is carrot. But nice try.”

  “I like your style, Paige Miller.” Marcus checked his mirrors and pulled out from the curb. Pressing the accelerator hard, I was pushed back in the leather bucket seat of his expensive car, giggling with sudden excitement.

  A few blocks later, he reversed the car into a parallel park not far from Sugar Plum, the most mouth-watering dessert-only restaurant in the city. I’ve had their self-saucing lemon cake approximately a hundred times, and it was always so light and fluffy, with a hint of sourness in the sauce that set your taste buds humming.

  I put my hand on the door handle to push the door open when Marcus placed his hand on my shoulder. I turned back to look at him, and before I knew what was happening, he leaned across, his face so close to mine I could feel his breath against my cheek.

  “Paige,” he said, his voice low.

  I swallowed as I looked into his eyes, my mouth suddenly dry, all thoughts of lemon-y desserts floating off into the ether. This was it. This was our first kiss. This was going to be the kiss we would talk about for years to come: the night we went for dessert at Sugar Plum and ended up kissing in the rain. So romantic. I closed my eyes and leaned in, knowing what was coming next.

  As his lips brushed against mine, I breathed in his scent, my insides turning to jelly. And, wow. Wow! It had been about a year since I had kissed a guy—that was seven whole years in dog years. Seven years! And the kiss? I mean, oh, my. What a way to break the drought. Tender but firm, slow but insistent, it had everything you could ever want in a first kiss.

  Marcus pulled away from me and gazed into my eyes. “Did you want to continue this somewhere else?” He ran his fingers through my hair, making it hard to concentrate on what he was saying.

  My eyes darted to the brightly lit Sugar Plum sign behind his head. “Dessert?”

  He chuckled. It was low and sexy and rumbled right through me.

  “Or not,” I offered as an alternative as he pressed his lips against mine once more. Kissing Marcus was even more incredible than eating the self-saucing lemon cake at Sugar Plum.

  “I’ve got a hotel room not far from here,” he said between kisses.

  I pulled away from him, searching his face. He wanted me to go to some hotel room with him? Alarm bells began to clang so loudly in my head, I could have sworn a herd of cows were wandering past the car. “I, ah . . .”

  “I’m having my place redecorated right now, you see, so I’m living at The Royal. It’s just down the road from here.”

  “Oh, I see,” I replied, letting out a relieved chortle. At least it wasn’t a charge-by-the-hour motel, it was a proper hotel room, booked for a legitimate reason.

  But still. My relief was short-lived. He wanted me to go to a hotel room with him on our second date? I wasn’t stupid, I knew that meant sex. And it was way too early for sex with Marcus.

  He brushed his lips against mine, making my mind go hazy once more. “What do you say?”

  What would I say? On the one hand, I wanted him oh-so much. He was charming, he was sexy, and from what I could tell through his shirt, his face wasn’t the only thing that looked like Channing Tatum. On the other hand, I didn’t want a quick fling, over before it had even begun. I wanted a real relationship, one that grew and deepened each time we saw one another. One that would last. I had agreed to the pact with my friends because I wanted to find The One. Going to his hotel room with him right now was about a million miles away from helping me reach that goal.

  “Marcus, I’d love to, but let’s take this slow, okay? There’s no need to rush things.”

  Damn him if he didn’t kiss me again, this time slipping his fingers up the nape of my neck into my hair, sending tingles down my spine.

  “But I want you, Paige,” he murmured into my ear, his breath hot on my neck.

  “Marcus.” My voice came out unnaturally high. I cleared my throat and tried again as he began to dot kisses down my neck. Man, he wasn’t playing fair! “Please.”

  He pulled away and looked into my eyes. “Sorry, sorry. I was getting a bit carried away, wasn’t I?”

  I smiled. “Yeah.”

  “I guess I can’t help myself. But I respect you and your wishes, so we can take it slow, if that’s what you want?”

  I bit my lip, barely believing how strong I was being—and also kind of regretting it. I mean, it wasn’t every day a hot guy asked you to his swanky hotel room, was it? Well, it wasn’t for me, anyway. “It is. Thanks.”

  He let out a long sigh as he slid back into his seat. “Can I drive you home?”

  And he did just that, no self-saucing lemon cake and no more kisses.

  Chapter 16

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON AT our agreed time, I arrived at Max’s Pool Hall in downtown Auckland to meet Josh for our game of pool. The place was busy for a Sunday afternoon, full of groups of mainly men, with the odd woman thrown in for good measure, bottles of beer sitting on the bar leaners, waiting for them to make their shots. I spotted Josh at the bar, talking with the barmaid, who was busy explaining something to him, gesticulating with her hands.

  I sidled up to him.

  “That’s what I was telling you! He so did it,” the barmaid said, shaking her head for emphasis.

  “Who did what?” I asked, taking a seat next to Josh.

  “Oh, hey, Paige. Sal here is putting forward her argument as to why O. J. was the killer.”

  I scrunched up my face. “O. J. Simpson?”

  “The very same,” Sal said. “Guilty as sin.”

  “Isn’t that pretty universally accepted?” I said, looking from a vehemently nodding Sal to Josh.

  “Exactly,” Sal said. “Only, Josh here thinks maybe not.”

  “Hold on there. I didn’t say that. All I said was the evidence is not conclusive, that’s all.” Josh held his hands palm up in supplication.

  “Why are you talking about this, anyway? Wasn’t this, like, when we were kids?” I asked, wondering what all the fuss was about.

  “I just finished watching that show, The People Versus O. J. Simpson. Have you seen it?” Josh asked.

  “No.” I laughed. I preferred happy, feel-good shows, like reruns of Gilmore Girls, Downton Abbey, This is Us, and, of course, Dad’s and my much-loved reality cooking shows. Not real-life crime documentaries.

  “You should,” Sal replied, nodding her head sagely at me. “It’s nice to meet you, Paige.” She extended her hand, and I shook it.

  “You too.”

  “I hope you know what you’re up against, taking on this guy in pool.”

  I raised my eyebrows at Josh. “Been talking yourself up, have you?”

  “Me? Never.” He grinned, and an unexpected warmth spread through my belly. “What would you like to drink?”

  I placed my order with Sal, Josh collected his half-drunk bottle of beer, and we claimed the pool table he’d reserved.

  “May the best man win,” he said as he offered me a cue.

  “She wil
l,” I replied with a smirk, selecting my own cue from the rack on the wall.

  “Oh, I see. It’s like that, is it?” Josh asked. He took a swig of his beer.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I bent over the table and sized up the break. I liked to take a firm first shot, showing my opponent what I was made of. Traditionally, when I played with Dad, I had a lot of success with the high balls. I liked them, and not just because the stripes on them made them prettier than the plain lows, although it helped.

  Concentrating on my target, I drew my cue stick back and stabbed, hearing the satisfying crack of a good break. I held my breath, waiting for one of the high balls to drop nicely into a pocket. The ten-ball rolled, heading directly toward the back left, slowing, slowing, and then plop, straight into the pocket.

  “Nice shot. I can see I’ve got my work cut out for me this afternoon,” Josh said, and I couldn’t help but smile, try as I might not to let his compliment distract me from my game.

  I flashed him my smile and walked around the table, sizing up my options. I could feel Josh’s eyes on me the whole time. I tried to ignore him; I knew he was merely trying to put me off and that was the last thing I was going to let happen.

  The thirteen-ball was my best bet. It was about two feet away from the middle right pocket, but I had a clean line of sight to it, and I felt confident I could make it. I got myself into position once more, preparing for my shot. Pulling my cue stick back, I stabbed the white ball once more, it clunked into the thirteen, which went hurtling toward the pocket and right down into it.

  “Two down.” I was enjoying myself, thoughts of Marcus pushed to the back of my mind.

  Josh shook his head, smiling. “Lucky shot.” He took another swig of his beer, finishing the bottle off.

  “Lucky? Ha! Just watch this.” I already knew which ball I was going for next: the number twelve. It was a tricky shot, hiding behind one of Josh’s balls, but it was close to the right pocket, and I knew I could take it. It was a shot Dad taught me years ago, and I was kind of an expert at it.

  I got myself into position, which meant balancing my left butt cheek awkwardly on the edge of the pool table. I thanked my earlier self, who had chosen a pair of slim-fitting cropped pants and lace-up flats over the A-line skirt and wedges ensemble I had initially picked out. I leaned back, my cue held behind my back, ready to take my shot.