Against the Ropes
Page 35
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“Something wrong?” Max asks when I return to the table.
“No. I’m good.”
Max frowns, but before he can question me further, Brad returns with a tiny shot glass filled with pink froth.
Dear God, please don’t let this be the appetizer or I will pass out from hunger. “What is this?”
Max takes a sip. “Salmon mousseline. It’s an amuse-bouche. A taster. Something to tease your taste buds and get your palate ready for the meal.”
I down my amuse-bouche like a shot of tequila. Bitter, fishy, and frothy. My mouth is not amused.
The sommelier arrives. I am at a restaurant with a sommelier. My mom, the wine buff, would think she had died and gone to heaven. Good thing Max seems to know a thing or two about wine. I suspect there is no “House White” at Bianco Nero.
Our first wine, a Meursault, is soft, smooth, and buttery and totally unlike any white wine I’ve ever had. An orgasm for my tongue. Every sip makes me shiver. I sip. I sip. I sip some more. I have heard about multiple orgasms but never experienced them. If the wine is any indicator, I’ve been missing out.
Max excuses himself again to make a call. He leaves his phone on the table. As I contemplate what he might be doing, I guzzle down the rest of my wine. I’m ruined for house whites forever.
A few minutes later, Max returns and takes his seat. Brad reappears. Disappointingly, he doesn’t have any wine in his hand. His face is white, and his dark eyes are wide. He blends in perfectly with the decor.
“I apologize if I offended you Ms. Delaney. That wasn’t my intention.” He looks at Max. Max gives him a curt nod.
My stomach clenches. “Thanks Brad. I wasn’t offended. Just suffering from a bad case of self-doubt and an overprotective dining companion.”
Brad gives me a weak smile and races back to the kitchen.
My lips press into a thin line. I raise an eyebrow and glare at Max. “If I wanted you involved, I would have asked. I had it under control.”
Max glides his thumb along my bottom lip and my mouth opens to his touch. “He upset you. He’s lucky to be standing. No one will hurt you when I’m around…in any way.”
Tiny, warm quivers race through my body. Mmm. I like a protective alpha-male, but his actions were a bit over the top. No way am I going down that road. I know where it leads.
“You can’t strong-arm everyone who ruffles my feathers,” I say. “Sometimes it’s a misunderstanding. Sometimes a person is having a bad day. Only rarely are people purposely nasty. I get hurt. I try to understand. I move on.”
Max’s eyes darken with emotion. “You’re wrong, baby. The world is filled with cruel, nasty people. They think nothing of taking a life, destroying a family, or breaking a heart. If you don’t protect yourself, you’ll get hurt—maybe so bad you’ll never recover.”
His impassioned speech makes my heart ache. I can almost feel the pain behind his words. I reach out and cover his hand with my own. “Max–”
He cuts me off, as if he knows he has revealed too much, and yet his words have revealed nothing at all.
“I want to know about you. Where were you born?”
I startle at the abrupt change in conversation, and my brain scrambles to shift gears. “What?”
“Where were you born?” Max repeats.
With my wineglass refilled again by a now-silent Brad, I can give Max my full attention. Big mistake. The questions come thick and fast starting at birth, which I don’t remember, and moving to the childhood, which I do. I skip the bad stuff and tell him Dad died when Susie and I were young and how hard it was for my mom to raise us alone. I tell him about Amanda and how she was my surrogate sister and how she practically lived at our house to get away from her cold, distant parents. I tell him about my stepdad, Steve, and how he changed our lives and made Mom smile again.
“I’m sorry about your dad.” He takes my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles.
Brad returns with our first course, oysters with cabbage and some kind of foamy jelly. No to the most disgusting vegetable ever created. No to the foamy jelly. Yes to the oysters simply because they are supposed to be an aphrodisiac. The cold, slimy blob slithers down my throat. My gag reflex kicks in. Twice in one day. Good to know it works. I manage to control it with a sip of orgasmic wine. However, I am not overcome with the need to have sex right now. I cross oysters off my list of aphrodisiacs.
Max’s questions continue. Brad removes the remnants of the oysters and replaces our plates with sea scallops (yum) and fancy deviled eggs (double yum). How did I meet Amanda? I stole her boyfriend in kindergarten and she stole him back. Did I like school? Yes. Did I do extracurricular activities? Soccer, volleyball, golf, tennis, archery (Amanda made me do it), volunteer stuff, and lots of social activities. What were my favorite subjects? Biology and gym. Least favorite? Physics and history.
Brad tops off my glass. Is that a smile or is he about to whistle? His tiny mouth is kind of cute. Not so much his bony ass.
Although the little bites of food are delicious, my stomach is growling for something more substantial. My heart sinks when Brad arrives with two more miniscule dishes. Disappointingly, the frilled cod is not dressed in a tutu. I hit my fish threshold and dive into the asparagus instead.
Max doesn’t let up. His questions narrow in on college, my EMT work, my courses, and my boyfriends. What guy wants to know about the competition? Finally, I’ve had enough. “Max, please stop.” My wineglass wobbles when I put it down. The problem with having Brad constantly refilling my glass reveals itself as my head spins. Or maybe it’s lack of sustenance.
“No. I’m good.”
Max frowns, but before he can question me further, Brad returns with a tiny shot glass filled with pink froth.
Dear God, please don’t let this be the appetizer or I will pass out from hunger. “What is this?”
Max takes a sip. “Salmon mousseline. It’s an amuse-bouche. A taster. Something to tease your taste buds and get your palate ready for the meal.”
I down my amuse-bouche like a shot of tequila. Bitter, fishy, and frothy. My mouth is not amused.
The sommelier arrives. I am at a restaurant with a sommelier. My mom, the wine buff, would think she had died and gone to heaven. Good thing Max seems to know a thing or two about wine. I suspect there is no “House White” at Bianco Nero.
Our first wine, a Meursault, is soft, smooth, and buttery and totally unlike any white wine I’ve ever had. An orgasm for my tongue. Every sip makes me shiver. I sip. I sip. I sip some more. I have heard about multiple orgasms but never experienced them. If the wine is any indicator, I’ve been missing out.
Max excuses himself again to make a call. He leaves his phone on the table. As I contemplate what he might be doing, I guzzle down the rest of my wine. I’m ruined for house whites forever.
A few minutes later, Max returns and takes his seat. Brad reappears. Disappointingly, he doesn’t have any wine in his hand. His face is white, and his dark eyes are wide. He blends in perfectly with the decor.
“I apologize if I offended you Ms. Delaney. That wasn’t my intention.” He looks at Max. Max gives him a curt nod.
My stomach clenches. “Thanks Brad. I wasn’t offended. Just suffering from a bad case of self-doubt and an overprotective dining companion.”
Brad gives me a weak smile and races back to the kitchen.
My lips press into a thin line. I raise an eyebrow and glare at Max. “If I wanted you involved, I would have asked. I had it under control.”
Max glides his thumb along my bottom lip and my mouth opens to his touch. “He upset you. He’s lucky to be standing. No one will hurt you when I’m around…in any way.”
Tiny, warm quivers race through my body. Mmm. I like a protective alpha-male, but his actions were a bit over the top. No way am I going down that road. I know where it leads.
“You can’t strong-arm everyone who ruffles my feathers,” I say. “Sometimes it’s a misunderstanding. Sometimes a person is having a bad day. Only rarely are people purposely nasty. I get hurt. I try to understand. I move on.”
Max’s eyes darken with emotion. “You’re wrong, baby. The world is filled with cruel, nasty people. They think nothing of taking a life, destroying a family, or breaking a heart. If you don’t protect yourself, you’ll get hurt—maybe so bad you’ll never recover.”
His impassioned speech makes my heart ache. I can almost feel the pain behind his words. I reach out and cover his hand with my own. “Max–”
He cuts me off, as if he knows he has revealed too much, and yet his words have revealed nothing at all.
“I want to know about you. Where were you born?”
I startle at the abrupt change in conversation, and my brain scrambles to shift gears. “What?”
“Where were you born?” Max repeats.
With my wineglass refilled again by a now-silent Brad, I can give Max my full attention. Big mistake. The questions come thick and fast starting at birth, which I don’t remember, and moving to the childhood, which I do. I skip the bad stuff and tell him Dad died when Susie and I were young and how hard it was for my mom to raise us alone. I tell him about Amanda and how she was my surrogate sister and how she practically lived at our house to get away from her cold, distant parents. I tell him about my stepdad, Steve, and how he changed our lives and made Mom smile again.
“I’m sorry about your dad.” He takes my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles.
Brad returns with our first course, oysters with cabbage and some kind of foamy jelly. No to the most disgusting vegetable ever created. No to the foamy jelly. Yes to the oysters simply because they are supposed to be an aphrodisiac. The cold, slimy blob slithers down my throat. My gag reflex kicks in. Twice in one day. Good to know it works. I manage to control it with a sip of orgasmic wine. However, I am not overcome with the need to have sex right now. I cross oysters off my list of aphrodisiacs.
Max’s questions continue. Brad removes the remnants of the oysters and replaces our plates with sea scallops (yum) and fancy deviled eggs (double yum). How did I meet Amanda? I stole her boyfriend in kindergarten and she stole him back. Did I like school? Yes. Did I do extracurricular activities? Soccer, volleyball, golf, tennis, archery (Amanda made me do it), volunteer stuff, and lots of social activities. What were my favorite subjects? Biology and gym. Least favorite? Physics and history.
Brad tops off my glass. Is that a smile or is he about to whistle? His tiny mouth is kind of cute. Not so much his bony ass.
Although the little bites of food are delicious, my stomach is growling for something more substantial. My heart sinks when Brad arrives with two more miniscule dishes. Disappointingly, the frilled cod is not dressed in a tutu. I hit my fish threshold and dive into the asparagus instead.
Max doesn’t let up. His questions narrow in on college, my EMT work, my courses, and my boyfriends. What guy wants to know about the competition? Finally, I’ve had enough. “Max, please stop.” My wineglass wobbles when I put it down. The problem with having Brad constantly refilling my glass reveals itself as my head spins. Or maybe it’s lack of sustenance.
