Page 47 of Van Cort

“Yeah. I shouldn’t keep forgetting about the views right on our doorstep,” I muse, as the colours sink deeper into the Sound.

“You prefer the view in Vancouver?” he asks.

“Prefer might be too permanent a word. I love a good sunset. Vancouver was special, though.” My fingers reach for the chain at my neck, as if checking that it did happen.

The memory of how mad I’ve been with him douses the words I want to say.

Like, the views in Vancouver were made better because of you.

Or, it meant more in Vancouver because you shared it with me and nobody else.

I sound like a romantic. So, I turn from the equally romantic setting sun and study him instead.

He leans in and kisses my cheek. “Come on.” He leads us towards the glass entrance doors, and we head inside.

Considering the fine black suit and the dress requirements, I’m a little surprised at how casual the restaurant looks inside.

“Mr Van Cort.” He greets the ma?tre d’.

“Of course, Sir. This way.”

I force myself not to fidget as we make our way through the crowded room to a wide sweeping staircase leading up to the first floor. Which is completely empty, and has one single table positioned before the window with the perfect vista of the final rays of sun.

It’s ours.

No interruptions. Nobody else. Just us.

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.

Flashes of our nights at the mansion spring into my mind, and I take the glass to hold on to my frustration at this man. The wine is crisp and smooth and clearly expensive. But I don’t care. I’ve stood up to him and he’s still here.

He hasn’t terminated the contract, and with the realisation that I might be able to stand up to this man, something else eases into place in my chest.

***

“I think this date might be my favourite.”

“Ever?” He laughs at me.

“With you. I meant with you.” We walk hand in hand back down the pier, my heels in my other hand. He didn’t stop at the first bottle of wine, insisting it didn’t matter despite my protest that it was a work night. Adding that we owed it to our meal to honour it with wine and revelry.

“Better than the coffee and the hallway sex?”

“Well, that was different.” That was hot.

“Better than the casino?”

“The bathroom situation knocked that off the top.”

“Better than Vancouver?”

“That wasn’t a date. That was a trip. Not the same. Can we keep it like this? No more fighting, okay?” My voice sounds tired.

“I promise not to fight with you.” He smiles, and my eyes blink a few times.

“You know, it’s hard sometimes to keep up with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can be two different people over the course of a day. It makes my head spin. And it’s tiring.

” I swallow. The wine has gone to my head, but maybe I’m starting to realise that that’s the best way to see him.

In work. Out of work. “Everett?” I pull us to a stop, his face a little serious, and panic grips me that something’s wrong.

“No. Stop. I take it back. I don’t want to spoil anything. ”

“You can’t spoil tonight.”

“That’s sweet. Thank you.”

Andre picks us up and drives back to my place. And, to my shock, Everett pauses at the door.

I look back at him. “You’re going to ask, now? Not just assume? See, the neanderthal might be a good look right about now. You know I liked you taking charge when we were at the mansion. In the music room. In the bedroom.”

“You’re asking for…” he trails off.

“I’m asking you to fuck me, and end tonight on a high.”