“No. I didn’t plan this date a year ago.” I chuckle. I’m trying to keep the conversation light.
“Did you call this a date? You’d better ask the driver to turn this car around right now.”
“If you wish,” I call her bluff, not sure actually whether she was being serious.
“Clever,” she chides. “What would you do if agree?”
“Turn the car around,” I lie.
Fortunately, with a shake of the head she lightly dismisses my remark.
We pull up outside the restaurant and the driver rushes around to hold open the door. I like that he does that; it adds to the exclusiveness of the service.
“Have you been here before?” Meredith asks.
“Not for a long time.”
The last time I was here was with my fiancé, Kirsty, and I suddenly wonder if that’s the reason I’ve booked it tonight, and not that it was the first restaurant I thought of?
I’ve gotten out of the habit of going to restaurants with dates, because to be fair none of my hook ups can be seriously considered dates.
I inwardly sigh and remind myself this is not a date.
“The rumor mill will start about you and me now.” I flick my hand between the two of us.
“Why? Just because we’re eating dinner together? There’s no harm in that, is there?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Well, not to me, anyway. Depends what you’ve got at stake though?”
She cocks her head. “What do you mean exactly?”
“Won’t your boyfriend be pissed if it’s rumored that you’re Johnson Wilder’s latest date? Or does he know you’re here and trusts you enough not to fall under my charismatic spell?”
“That’s wrong on so many levels. And will you please stop referring to this as a date?”
I raise my eyebrows.
“First, I don’t have a boyfriend, secondly your ‘spell’ as you term it would have no effect on me.”
That was my way of checking for sure she isn’t taken. She’s a stunner and good-looking women like her are never single. That’s why I assumed she was with Hector the other night and even though I discovered she wasn’t, I still thought she must be in a relationship. And I didn’t consider asking Hector yesterday, in fact I kept off the subject of Meredith as I didn’t want to say anything out of turn. All of our conversation around the course was about golf and the psychology of it. Not about women and certainly not about Meredith.
“Why are you gay?” I joke, as I hold open the door for her.
She splutters. “No, but that’s not the only reason any sane woman wouldn’t fall for your charms.”
I laugh. “No? Well, I can’t come up with any more.”
She leans away from me. “You are arrogant, Johnson Wilder, anyway I thought you knew everything there was to know about me?”
The maître d’hotel struts across to greet us, and after a slight bow, shows us to our reserved table.
Letting Meredith go first, I admire the way she shrugs off her coat, letting it confidently glide down her back into the waiting hands of the maître d’hotel.
Then my jaw slackens. She’s wearing a powder blue mohair sweater with a cutout in the back stretching from a delicate mother-of-pearl button at the nape all the way to the curve of her ass. I can make out every vertebra and I have an urgent desire to stride across and claim each one with my mouth.
To me, that is not a sweater a woman would wear to a professional date. Not a single woman that knows the effect it will have on a testosterone heavy man like me. And I’m sure she knows that.
I run my fingers through my hair and veil my desires as she turns and sits.
“No,” I croak, “I don’t know everything there is to know about you, that was an off-the-cuff remark. They sent me your bio when I booked in with your firm. It was one of those chatty paragraphs that said you like to cuddle your cat and whatnot.”
“Ah, I forgot about that.”
Without alcohol to lubricate my dialog, I’m awkward.
First, I lose my confidence on the golf course, then in bed and now I’m out of sorts just talking to a woman. Jeez, what’s happening?
“No Johnson, I’m unfortunately single, having put my career before my personal life.”
Hmm. I know how that goes.
The chill in the restaurant must have affected Meredith, a summation I make when I spot the tantalizing shape of peaked nipples at the front of her sweater. In an instant my mouth goes dry, and it’s an effort to prise my eyes away.
Fortunately, she takes hold of the menu offered to her by a waiter and holds it up breaking my stare. I take my menu and flit across the list of dishes trying to read any of the letters arranged on the page but I can’t focus and neither am I able to sum up any small talk, because something’s not right.
Completely wrong, in fact.
“Rest room,” I mumble, and she regards me over the menu with a puzzled expression.
Without a further word of explanation, I stride off toward the back of the restaurant and hurry down the corridor. Pushing open the door I head straight for a cubicle, glance up to the ceiling and say a short prayer, before I dare peek.
Yep, he’s all snug and in one piece but most definitely fast asleep. It seems he’s not interested in stirring for anything and I’m sure I’ve no idea what I’ve done wrong. I pull him out and nothing. Flick him from side-to-side. Nope. What the fuck?
Now, I’m no teenager that gets a stonking hard on with every woman’s nipples I see or jizz in my pants at the sight of anything erotic. I’ve had over a decade of perfecting the control I have over my cock. But there’s usually a stirring. Or a reassuring twitch. Especially when my mind is saying yeah, she’s fucking beautiful. Which it is right now.
A breath whistles out of my pursed lips, and I put him away. I study my face as I wash my hands at the sink and I’m concerned at the doubting guy staring back at me. What is happening to me? I stretch out my jaw and pull my fingers through my hair to summon up positive energy before I return to the dining room.
Meredith looks up as I reach the table.
“Everything okay?”
“Uhuh.”
She tips her head to one side.
“You sure?” She rights her head. “Is it something I said or someone you’ve spotted in here? There’s definitely a problem.”
“I’m fine. Leave it.” I snap, before I can stop myself.
She folds her hands on her lap and glances around the room. I’ve messed up and I have no idea how to charm my way out of this.
Here I am sat across from a woman I have feelings for, whatever they might be, and I’m worried that I’m suffering from self-deprivation.
I take hold of the menu but my appetite has disappeared, so when the waiter returns I order the first dish I see. Duck terrine.
“You’re very refined,” she quips.
I flash my eyes across to her after I hand over the menu to the waiter. “Why?”
“Terrine? I thought you’d go for a more manly dish. Like a blue steak or a leg of lamb.”
I don’t just sink inside; I full-on collapse. What the hell is happening to me?
Briskly, I call the waiter over. “Whisky. And make it a large one.”
“Cabernet Franc.” Meredith instructs the waiter when he turns his attention to her.
The waiter steps away to tend to the drinks and Meredith rests her elbows on the table and leans over. “Is something going on here? I sense there is.”
“Not sure.” I drum my thumb on the table. “I guess I’m not myself tonight.”
“Any particular reason?” she asks in a hushed tone.
“To be honest, a restaurant isn’t the best place to confess to you how I’m feeling right now.”
“Confess? That’s a significant word to use.”
I snort, while weighing up whether I should open up to her. The stakes are high and the options limited.
There’s no way I can admit that I have feelings
for her. Especially when I explain that she needn’t worry because the guy downstairs has hung up his ‘out-of-order’ sign. I mean, what sort of woman would be interested in a man who can’t get it up?
Either way, a restaurant is not the place to have such a discussion.
If anywhere.
Ever.
“Yes, my bad. Confess is completely the wrong choice of word. I’m just feeling a little sick.”
“Ah.” She hesitates while continuing to stare me out. “If you’re sick, duck terrine isn’t the best thing to try. We can always call it a day and re-schedule the discussion about Augusta for a more convenient time.”
Yup. I’ve majorly fucked this up. I don’t know what I thought this would be? A date? Never.
I down the whisky when it’s brought over and grab the waiter’s arm when he turns to leave. “Can you cancel the order? Put everything on the bill though.”
The waiter scurries off to the maître d’hotel and rather than have a scene at the table, I push back my chair and stride over to them to apologize, skim over an explanation and pay with my Platinum Amex card.
The waiter appears with our coats and Meredith calmly pulls hers on, draining the glass of wine the waiter had served to her before we walk out to the cool evening.
Fortunately, there’s a passing cab, so I hail it down and let Meredith get in.
“Sorry,” I say, as I reach through and give the driver a fifty-dollar bill and then close the door on her.
It’s damp and cold, so I pull up the collar on my jacket and march off down the street in search of a drink to swamp out my problems.
The first bar I reach is busy and when I open the door to the sweaty stifled space, the stench of beer hits my nose. A slow pan around the room at the hung heads of the patrons makes me realize drowning my problems with alcohol will not make them any better.
Turning on my heels I venture back onto the street and tackle the sidewalk at my usual pace, built up from years of covering at least ten miles a day on a golf course. There’s a crowd ahead of me I will have to navigate my way around and as I prepare to step off onto the street, I spot they are gathered around the entrance to Pizza Hut.
Chapter Twelve
Meredith
It takes a few minutes before I’m able to close my mouth; left gawping from the shock of being exited from the restaurant and shoved into a cab, with no explanation, just a simple apology.
“Well, that’s it. Johnson Wilder is an arrogant, privileged… ignoramus!”
The cab driver registers my tirade through the rear-view mirror with amusement.
“Ignoramus? What century did you pull that cuss from?” He laughs back at me.
I allow a faint smile. “No, actually, I can’t cuss in front of others. It’s an affliction I have.”
“What like you’ll come out in a rash if you do?” He laughs and shakes his head.
I rub the back of my hand that still stings from the memories of my grandmother rapping it if I used language she deemed inappropriate or lazy. ‘There’s a whole dictionary full of more expressive words,’ she would chastise.
“Something like that,” I mutter back to him.
“Anyway, where are we going?” he asks.
I give him my old address, and it’s not until we are pulling onto the street I realize my mistake. The driver isn’t amused and neither am I. So, when he drops me two blocks out from my new apartment, I don’t complain as I’m more than ready to walk the few hundred yards home.
I stuff my hands in my pockets and walk toward home. I peer into the internally lit windows from the houses in my new neighborhood and stop at a few of the restaurants to check out their menus. Johnson’s selfish curtailment of our evening has left me hungry but I’m not in the mood to sit at a table on my own on a Friday evening.
As I pick up my pace, and curse my choice of shoes, I decide I don’t have the right to feel the way I do. Yes, the evening was curtailed because he got sick, but what was I expecting to get out of it?
I dressed up; first mistake.
Flirted; second mistake.
And now feel hurt; third and final mistake.
Being alone and walking the dimly lit streets sends a shiver down my spine so I pick up my pace. When I step onto the crosswalk, I check for cars each way and notice down the street to my left a gray block of a building with amber glowing signage. ‘Train With Blane’.
I stop on the crossing and stare for a moment. What are the chances of me living a short distance from one of the Wilder Brothers headquarters? A decent guy too, Blane Wilder. Obviously nothing like his elder brother.
“Arrogant, privileged ignoramus.” I mutter, stomping off as much as my heels will allow to the sidewalk opposite.
There is still a frustration to my tread when I turn into my street, dipping my head to hunt in my purse for my keys. I’m circumspect when I raise my eyes to my apartment building and spot the shadow of a man trotting down the exterior steps.
My breathing halts when the figure turns towards me and I recognize the familiar gait. It’s Johnson.
Well, I’m not about to cross the street to avoid him or turn around and pretend I‘ve not spotted him, especially when it now becomes clear he’s seen me.
“Meredith. I…”
I ignore him and turn up to the steps, pausing when I spot the boxes stacked up at the top. A note stuck to them is flapping in the breeze. Slowly I climb the last few steps and squint at the message.
Sorry.
I’m an ass.
… lost my confidence.
Standing over the words, I listen to the sounds of my heart telling me to let him bare his soul and it muffles the frustration in my head.
Slowly, I turn to find him waiting for my reaction. “Come on then, Johnson, the pizza will get cold.”
He wastes no time in bounding up the stairs, lifts the boxes and balances them onto his forearm so he can hold open the door for me.
Silently, he follows me through to the back of the first floor to my apartment.
Once inside, I hang up my coat and put my shoes away in the closet, before padding through to the kitchen. Johnson is rooted to the floor inside the door.
“Come in then.”
He toes off his shoes and the pizza boxes topple from his arm. I rush toward him and catch as they slide, our arms caught up together and faces inches apart. It’s the closest we’ve ever been and I catch a sadness in his eyes, evident by a gray cloud smoking the blue.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I will be, if you shuffle that carton back on to the pile.”
I smile. “That’s not what I meant Johnson. But we can’t have a conversation over a stack of pizza boxes.” I align them and move back down the hallway. This time he follows.
I nod toward the small dining table I have set up in front of the windows of the living space and he places them down.
“Okay, I’ll get off then,” he mumbles.
“What? I thought…?”
He scratches his head. “I wanted to apologize for being an ass at the restaurant. They’re for you.” He extends his hands towards the carry-out. “An apology.”
“Come on, it’s fine, you must be hungry too.”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“Here. You can make yourself useful at least.” I take a bottle of wine from the rack and thrust it at his idle hands while I retrieve a corkscrew from a drawer in the kitchen.
When I come back to him, he’s pulling out bottles from the rack.
“You’ve got a fair collection here.”
“I treated myself. This new apartment came with the wine rack and it kept staring at me with its empty eyes. So, I filled it.”
He takes the corkscrew, places it down on the table and instead of using it twists off the lid from the bottle with his fingers.
“Oh!” I laugh, picking out two matching wine glasses. “And before you ask, no I haven’t got beer or whisky or anything other than red wine. So, Mr. Wild
er, you will have to break a habit and try some.”
“Guess so.”
He takes off his jacket and hangs it from the back of a dining chair.
He still seems uncomfortable, so I take the glasses over to the low table in front of the sectional sofa. “We must sit on the sofa to eat. It’s carry-out law.”
He passes over the wine bottle and then carries across the pizza while I bring through linen napkins.
We crossover awkwardly in the small space between the table and the sofa. My chest brushing against his arm. And as I sit on the sofa with one leg crossed underneath the other, uncomfortable in my evening attire, I wonder why I’m being so forgiving. If he had left, as he wanted, I would have dressed in my lounge pants and tank, instead of cringing at the thought of dropping pizza sauce onto my new sweater.
I open the boxes and take out a slice and he follows suit.
“What’s gotten into you Johnson?”
He slowly chews through his mouthful before answering.
“I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a dork, but it seems like my confidence on some major shit in my life has disappeared.”
“What golf?”
“Not only that, other stuff too.”
I pour wine into each glass, sliding one across to his end of the table.
“Like what?”
His hand covers the bowl of the glass, and he raises it to his lips to take a cautious sip.
“Women and stuff.” He pulls at the leather bracelet wrapped around his wrist.
I smile. “Don’t you think that’s ironic?”
“How so?” He furrows his brows.
“When you first came to see me, you had golf issues brought on by your distractions with women and now you turn your attention back to golf you’re having problems with women.”
He scoffs.
“Sorry, now it’s my turn to apologize. I didn’t mean to dismiss your feelings.”
“As long as you don’t call me a sex addict again, then I’m good.”
I wince. “Yeah, I suppose that was harsh. It’s just that you come across as a little… arrogant sometimes. As if women don’t mean that much to you, simply a means to an end.”
“I’ll be honest, Meredith, you’re correct. I haven’t let a woman mean anything for a while now and only spending time with women that want to party ensured I didn’t slip up on that score. It’s not that I don’t value or admire women, shit, of course I do, but it scares me. And before you say it, not because it will affect my golf, but because I’m afraid it won’t work out. That, I can’t deal with.”
Tee It Up: A Wilder Brothers Romance Page 8
