Page 106 of Van Cort

A bottle of wine is already chilling in a wine bucket to the side of the table, even tea lights decorate the setting.

We’re seated and left, and the grin on his face is absurdly confident, sexy and weakens all of my defences. The effort he’s gone to does, to my ire, lessen the anger from our friction the last few days. He was clearly frustrated by our conversation this morning, but he’s still done all this.

He seems to be studying me just as much as the menu, and each time I feel his gaze on me, I’m reminded of everything we did while at his mansion, the time since coming home, slipping to the background.

“If you’re still mad, you could help by walking me through my transgressions.”

My eyes dart to his. Is he serious? “Sometimes, Everett, you say things that make me question your intelligence.”

“We can’t have that now. But in my defence, maybe it’s because you alone have the ability to drive all sense from my mind.”

No. No no no.

“You can’t just flatter me, or tell me things like that, Everett. I told you already; you can’t fix everything with money.”

“Oh, believe me, I know. But for the benefit of all doubt, spell it out for me.”

Despite the rest of the floor being empty, I still glance around before levelling my stare back on Everett. “You don’t have the right to demand things from me or assume the worst of me if we’re meant to be in a serious relationship. And you certainly can’t manipulate me through sex.”

His grin is devilish. “Oh, I believe I can.”

“Don’t. I’m being serious. And it takes a lot for me to tell you all of this. Don’t make fun of me.”

“I wouldn’t.” He leans back, a sigh leaving him. “Would you like me to apologise?”

“Yes.”

“For what, exactly?”

“For assuming, and being an ass, and for trying to win me over with sex. Although I think I needed that as much as you, so… I don’t know.” He stares at me, running his tongue over his lips.

“Okay. I’ll apologise. For being an ass. I’ll never apologise for sex. Manipulative or not.” My eyes narrow. At least it’s something in the way of contrition.

“Fine.” I look at the view, attempting to shake off everything. “Can we just try to enjoy the meal? I said to myself that maybe it would be easier outside of work, but if we’re going to pick over the last couple of days, maybe I was mistaken.”

“No more work talk. Understood.” He drops his eyes down to the menu, and as if on cue, the waiter returns.

“Are you ready to order?”

“Oysters to start, with extra lemon. And the Caesar salad.”

“Of course, Sir.” The waiter turns to me, and I run over all the dishes. Again.

“Andie?” Everett prompts. At least he’s not ordered my entrée, too.

“It all looks delicious. What would you recommend?”

“I’ve not been here before.” He steeples his fingers and directs his stare at me, and I can feel the warmth of my blush immediately.

“Okay.” I turn to the waiter, expectantly.

“Oh, well, meat or fish? The filet mignon, if it’s beef, or may I suggest the seafood bacchanalia?”

“Oh, well, that’s sealed it. We’ll have the bacchanalia. A must.” Another dirty smile, and I’m left to wonder why sharing fish has made him look that devilish.

“What’s so funny?” I lean towards him once the waiter’s out of earshot.

“Just it has us written all over that dish. It means drunken revelry in Greek.” He lifts his glass and takes a sip.