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When I don’t express a preference for dessert—because my brain has turned to the consistency of melted caramel—Orson orders a Tiramisu for two. The waiter tops our glasses with the last of the champagne, then goes away.
“Excuse me a moment,” Orson says, and he rises from the table and goes inside.
I watch him go, then turn back to my glass and let out a shaky sigh before sipping the champagne. The magical bubbles are starting to have an effect, and I can feel my nuts and bolts loosening, releasing the tension in the tendons and ligaments between my joints that feel so tightly strung.
I don’t know quite what it is that I’m so tense about—is it the environment? The food? The champagne? Not really, because it’s very relaxed here, and the food and drink are delicious.
It is, of course, the man who’s been sitting opposite me. If you look up the phrase ‘larger than life’ in the dictionary, I’m sure you’d find a photo of Orson. He’s like a strawberry whose taste is so intense, so strawberry-like, that it’s more strawberry tasting than any other strawberry in the whole history of strawberry-osity.
I think I might be a little bit tipsy.
I pick up the bear and stroke a thumb across its soft fur. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, like he said. After all, I’ve only had two glasses of champagne, but I know that alcohol can increase epinephrine levels, which would explain my racing heart and the feeling of excitement rising through me like the bubbles in the champagne.
I think about the way he leaned forward on the table and stared into my eyes, like a black panther who’d spotted a deer with a particularlyjuicy haunch. He did everything but lick his lips. He wants to sink his teeth into me.
And oh my God, I want him to… so, so much…
He exits the restaurant and walks across the garden, and I watch him, my pulse picking up again. He walks so confidently, as if he owns the place, and as if he expects everyone in the restaurant to be looking at him, which I think they are, because he’s the most gorgeous guy here. And he’s with me. I can’t help but feel flattered at that.
He sits back down, his lips curving up. “What?” he says. “Your eyes are like saucers.”
I shake my head. I have to bear in mind the effect of the champagne and adrenaline mix and ensure I don’t make any hasty decisions.
“Aren’t you cross with me?” I ask.
He blinks. “About what?”
“The fact that I’ve been sent here to seduce you into accepting the increased price.”
He leans back, one arm over the back of the chair, playing with his spoon with the other hand. “Firstly, I don’t get cross with women. And secondly,isthat why you’re here?”
I moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue. “No.”
He gives a small smile.
I hum along to the song playing in the restaurant, and his eyebrows rise. “You like Billie Eilish?” he asks.
“Yeah. You?”
“She’s all right. I’m just surprised you know her stuff.”
“I don’t just listen to Bob Dylan and burn incense, you know. I also listen to Van Morrison and Neil Young and… brace yourself… modern music.”
He chuckles. “What else do you like to do in your spare time?”
I tell him a bit about my painting and creative writing. When I mention I play acoustic guitar, he laughs and says, “That was a dot on the cards.”
“So what do you do?” I ask sarcastically. “Apart from putting your gold coins in piles?”
He grins. “I don’t get a lot of free time. Sometimes…” He stops though as the waiter arrives with our dish of Tiramisu. To my shock, two sparklers are sticking out of it, and the waiter sings ‘Happy Birthday’ as he places the dish before me.
Orson joins in with the words, laughing at the expression on my face, then thanks the waiter, who withdraws with a smile.
“Naughty boy,” I scold, semi-embarrassed at the smiles of the other diners.
“Least I could do,” he says, removing the sparklers once they’re finished and dropping them into the tumbler of water the waiter has left for that purpose.
“Wow.” I take one of the spoons and stare at the concoction in front of me. Layers of sponge mingle with mascarpone cream and a dusting of cocoa powder.