Page 18 of A Matter of Fact

“I was going to.”

“Can I take you to lunch first?”

Rhys looked at him so earnestly that Beckett didn’t know what to say besides yes. In his gut, he knew it was a horrible idea. They were too far apart socially. They obviously lived in completely different worlds, their lives polar opposite experiences. But Rhys was so handsome and he was painfully arrogant, and more than that, he was apparently interested in Beckett.

There couldn’t be any real harm in having one last meal before he started his celery and Ramen diet.

“Alright,” he conceded.

“We’re not walking, though.” As Rhys said it, the black town car pulled into the parking lot of the bank. The driver jumped out and opened the back door, ushering Beckett and Rhys into the overstuffed back seat.

The experience was awkward, and Beckett wanted to enjoy the luxury, but he hated every second of it. He felt uncomfortable and out of place, and once again like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Do you like Thai?” Rhys asked.

“I don’t dislike it.”

“That’s a no.”

“It’s not a no,” he corrected, forcing himself to lean back in his seat. The windows were tinted and the legroom was intense. He stretched his legs out, comparing his battered converse to Rhys’s two thousand dollar leather Chelsea boots.

“What would you like to eat?” Rhys asked, turning so their knees brushed. Electricity flared up Beckett’s leg, straight to his groin.

“Anything but French,” he said quietly. “Maybe Italian. Some pasta.”

Pasta was close to Ramen, but seemed fancier and more appropriate. And when Beckett thought of the kind of Italian restaurant Rhys would go to, he thought of a place with low lights and small tables, red wine, and oil for the bread instead of butter. It sounded like a nice meal, a nice place, and he could allow himself this one thing.

“Gene, L’Ultima Cena. Can you call ahead?” Rhys asked the driver, who was apparently named Gene.

“Sure thing, Mr. St. George.”

“Mr. St. George,” Beckett repeated, rolling his eyes and the car took a right and headed toward the coastline.

“I am,” Rhys said. It was so simply stated, like it was just a matter of fact. “And who are you?”

“Just Beckett,” he rasped. “Beckett Thatcher.”

“That suits you, I think.”

“Same.”

They didn’t speak again until Gene pulled the car alongside the curb in front of the tiniest little restaurant facade Beckett had ever seen. Before he could reach the door, it swung open, revealing a smiling Gene in his black suit and starched white shirt.

“Gene, right?” Beckett asked.

“That’s right, sir.”

“Oh, God, not that.” Beckett patted Gene’s shoulder as he stepped out of the car. “Just Beckett. Please.”

“Beckett,” Gene repeated. “I’ll be here when you’re done Mr. St. George. There’s a table ready for you.”

“Thanks, Gene.”

Rhys eased one hand against the small of Beckett’s back and gestured toward the front door of the restaurant with the other. Beckett wasn’t ashamed to say he liked the attention, but he didn’t want to get used to it. Things like this didn’t last. Not for people like Beckett, at least.

“Mr. St. George,” a host greeted them when they reached the front door and Beckett was already tired of the formality. He bit his tongue and followed Rhys into the restaurant. They were seated at a small table in the corner. It was dimly lit and the table was small, and Beckett took a deep breath before taking his seat.

“Does it ever get old?” he asked as soon as Rhys had settled opposite him.