Page 65 of Class Act

“Oh, ensemble is a nice word. You’re obviously a man of experience.”

I draped the coat over my arm, and he stepped to the side, allowing me to come onto the small porch and turn to close and lock my door before we took the three steps down to the sidewalk. He nodded to the left, and we fell into step together as we made our way to guest parking.

“I was married for eight years. I’m familiar with the outfit selection process,” he said over the light sound of my heels clicking along.

“Eight years, huh? Was your wife like me and took her time planning out all the details that no one else would even notice?” I said in a self-deprecating tone.

He shook his head. “Before the money, no. It was straight t-shirts and jeans. Later . . . yes. She got really into high-end fashion.”

The odd tone he’d taken had me closing my mouth and avoiding any other mention of her. I didn’t know a lot of about the mysterious Heather Whittaker, but what I did know was she wasn’t a subject that Ford especially liked talking about, and this wasn’t the right time.

We reached a sleek silver sedan, and I stopped and made my eyes wide. “Gray again? Ford, how did you know? Matching the car to the outfit is really high-level stuff.”

The crack pulled him out of whatever trough he’d fallen into when thinking about his late wife, and he smirked. “I don’t have a car for every suit.”

“Right. You forget, I’ve been in your garage.”

He reached the passenger door and opened it as I made my way toward him. “You have?”

“Yes. I ate your strawberries and cream birthday cake while sitting on the ground next to your Corvette.”

“You ate on my garage floor?”

I nodded as I took my seat, and he closed the door. When he’d seated himself behind the wheel and backed out, I asked him about the people who would be at dinner and was happy to sit back and listen as he gave me a quick overview. It was best to be prepared, and for all my teasing, I understood that this was an important evening for him.

When we arrived at The Amaryllis, we pulled up to valet parking, and my door was opened by a young man in a crisp white uniform. I thanked him for his kindness and waited as Ford came around the front of his car.

“Have you been here before?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s my mother’s birthday tradition.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Every year since they opened.”

“Then I suppose you know your way around already.”

The double doors were opened by another young man in uniform, and I startled slightly when Ford’s fingertips brushed against my lower back, an indication that I should go ahead of him. It took a lot of willpower to play it off like gentlemen were always escorting me places rather than glancing his way with big eyes, but I pulled it off by focusing my attention on the employee and giving him a smile as I entered the beautiful lobby.

Once we were inside I felt a bubble of excitement over getting to come here two times in the same year, having celebrated Mom’s birthday here in June. The Amaryllis was expensive, elite, and sought after. It was one of those bucket list type places where you almost pass out at the prices while screaming in excitement over actually being there.

In a flash I realized Ford could eat here weekly if he wanted while I was a pro-level budgeting master and penny pincher. We certainly lived different lifestyles.

Ford surprised me once again by lightly touching my shoulder and asking if he could take my coat. I’d been so caught up in the atmosphere of the place that I’d missed yet another employee coming from my side to take my coat and check it. I glanced over my shoulder at Ford and handed him the coat that had been hanging over my arm.

“Of course. Sorry.”

Ford simply handed my coat to the employee without any comment, and I took the opportunity to square my shoulders, straighten my spine, and get my head in the game. Ford hadn’t brought me here to gape like a hooked fish at everything or daydream about not living paycheck to paycheck. I wasn’t new to this setting. Time to play it cool.

“If you’ll follow me?” The maître d’ bowed slightly toward us, and once again Ford’s fingertips burned a hole in my back as he played the part of thoughtful escort.

I remembered the feel of those same fingertips, still damp from the pool as they wrapped around my arm and he leaned toward me . . .

I forced the thought down and followed the maître d’ in his black-on-black uniform, avoiding the mistake of sight-seeing, and pasted on a serene expression when we stepped into the private room. This was one place I’d never been, and it was incredible. Made to look like an English garden, we’d somehow been transported outside of our small city. All the walls were glass, with hedges and pathways, flowers blooming, and even a fountain. On one end of the room was a wooden floor where a string quartet was playing something wonderful. I wanted to pause and listen, but I kept walking, reminding myself that I’d be able to hear them from the table. On the other end of the room was a large circular table, designed with intricate whirls and painted white and gold. Around it there were ten chairs, and all but two were already filled.

Worried that we were the last to arrive and had kept them waiting, I painted on my most apologetic smile as Ford gracefully skirted around me and offered his hand to the closest person.

“Welcome. I’m so glad you’re all here and seated,” he said graciously.

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