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“The dining room is this way,” I said, sweeping my arm toward the long corridor.
He stepped forward, hand hovering politely in midair. “After you.”
I led the way down the hall, each footfall echoing through the gilded space. My throat tightened, but I willed myself forward. I’d invited him here. To turn cold now would be as discourteous as refusing the invitation in the first place.
Halfway to the dining room, I accepted a small truth: this dinner could go two ways. He might redeem himself, or we’d part with nothing more than a polite nod. Either outcome felt manageable.
As we neared the heavy oak doors, he paused beside one of the tall, gilt mirrors lining the walls. I halted behind him, watching as he adjusted his tie, straightening the knot, smoothing the silk. He tilted his head left, then right,examining every angle. A satisfied grin touched his lips, and he gave himself a single nod.
Then he met my gaze and froze, caught in the act.
I nearly snorted, but I pressed it down. I lifted my chin and offered the same polite smile I’d given him moments ago, waiting for him to turn and lead the way.
“I hope you’re hungry. The staff left a feast for us.” I pushed open the double doors and stepped into cool lamplight, my heels clicking on the marble floor.
He followed, lips parting into a whistle as his gaze swept over platters of glistening kofta, bowls of steaming rice, stacks of fresh pita, and dishes of hummus and baba ghanoush. “This looks amazing,” he said. He drew nearer, sniffing the air. “Eli’s chef is famous for his spetzofai.”
I settled into a chair at the head of the table and motioned to a seat opposite. “Oh, yes. He outdid himself at our family dinner last week.”
Beneath the chandeliers, steam rose in lazy spirals from every dish, carrying the warm, spiced aroma straight to my chest.
We sat. Silverware chimed against china. I stared at the food, wondering how long it would take him to stop small talk and strike a real topic. The question answered itself the moment I sank my fork into a kofta.
He cleared his throat. “So, you’re looking for a husband, Calista?”
I lifted my gaze. “I’m weighing my options.” I scooped hummus onto a piece of pita. “I hear you’re in the marriage market too.”
His shoulders lifted, one then the other. A grin tugged at his lips. “Sure. I don’t need a wife, but do I want one?”
He held my stare as if I might supply the answer from across the table.
I watched a drop of olive oil catch the light on my plate.
“Look,” he said, leaning back so the candlelight danced off the gel in his hair. “A wife would probably do me good. Pop out a few children, keep the family line strong.”
I swallowed—a cool knot formed in my throat.
“I’m a busy guy,” he admitted. “And in our world, men gain a certain sense of respect when they have a wife. So, having a wife would help my reputation and maybe boost my career a bit. I won’t lie, having a wife around would make entertaining much easier.”
“Why is that?” I asked, cocking my head to the side.
I had a feeling I knew what the answer was going to be, but I wanted to let him dig his grave even deeper.
“Well, because of all the shit involved,” he said. I ignored his crude language and didn’t blink an eye.
“Like what?”
“All that hostess stuff. Making sure everyone is comfortable and happy and has a drink in their hand.”
“Couldn’t your staff handle that? You’re describing a waitress.”
“It’s not the same at all.” He shook his head so emphatically that his hair broke free of the confines of the gel holding it down. “A wife can socialize, you know? Tinkling laughter? Flash a little cleavage? Flatter your boss in a corner, maybe let him slip a hand if he fancies himself bold?”
My fingers clenched the glass in my hand. I brought it to my lips, gulping until my lungs burned. What the fuck was wrong with him?
Bile rose in my throat, and I swallowed down every bit of water I could.
“God, sorry,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “That was inappropriate. You know. Considering.”