Page 92 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

In the car, he passed me a neat little parcel, and explained, “We were instructed to bring a book.”

“To dinner?”

He nodded. “I hope you don’t mind that I had Bellerose provide one.”

“Did he also pick the restaurant?”

“He”—Caspian got all pinkish at the top of his cheekbones—“helped me come up with something you would like.”

“Maybe I should go out with him.”

“I would strenuously object.”

I unwrapped the book and burst out laughing. It was a folio society edition of Rebecca.

The restaurant turned out to be this wood cabin built on a traffic island near London Bridge. Inside, it was clean and unfussy, all grown-up shades of brown, and books everywhere—there was even one on our table, a copy of Eros the Bittersweet. And it turned out the whole deal was about telling stories through food. Which I…yeah. Cheesy or not, I loved it.

And, best of all, they had a tasting menu so I was saved from having to order, something I always hated. I mean, not what beans I wanted in my burrito, but there was way too much pressure in fancy places. You had to worry about the price of things, whether you were paying or not, and also what your choices might be saying about you. Like if you had the beef after the crab, did that mean you were a yahoo, and everyone was secretly laughing? And…and…on top of all that was the major commitment you were making to a large, expensive plate of food that you might not even like.

But this way I got to sit there and enjoy a candlelit Caspian and the food took care of itself: arriving as part of what seemed to be an endless parade of exciting nibbles. Some of which, I’ll admit, were slightly challenging for a middle-class boy who grew up in the middle of nowhere, but I quickly got swept up in the drama of never quite knowing what was going to turn up next. We had savory Oreos, called Storeos, made with squid ink and eel mousse, and crispy cod skin with cod roe emulsion, and black pudding topped with pineapple. And that was before the meal had even properly started. I didn’t think my bouche had ever been so comprehensively amused.

They brought us pouches of sourdough next served with condiments, and I literally squealed when it turned out the candle was made of beef fat and had been quietly forming a pool of warm, meaty deliciousness for us to dip the bread into. I did quite a lot of squealing, actually, as the various dishes appeared. Squealing, squeaking, gasping. Occasionally even waving my hands in the air. Everything was just so pretty and playful and weird, like the teeny-tiny mashed potato served with coal oil, or the Snow White apple that was presented to us in a bowl of billowing dry ice and opened up to reveal beef tartare and truffle, or the tiny little milk bottles that were full of rhubarb and custard soda.

And Caspian…God, I don’t quite know. He was looking at me the way he looked at Star Wars. Which made me so happy I got scared. Because it made me realize that I’d been with Caspian longer than I’d ever been with anyone and I had no idea what it meant. Our relationship had started with a blow job on a balcony, progressed to a pre-negotiated, short-term sexual arrangement, and then exploded.. And now it was…nothing and everything and we were at a restaurant together and was he my boyfriend?

Was Caspian Hart my boyfriend?

And did I even want him to be? Since it generally resulted in me going off someone pretty quickly.

Eh. Was it really worth worrying about? It was obvious Caspian liked me. And liked me far more than I was used to being liked. More than any reasonable person ought to like me, in all honesty. But I couldn’t help wondering: did it feel for him the way it felt for me? These Icarus wings, heavy on your back, and full of the promise of power, drawing you higher and higher and faster and faster until you couldn’t tell anymore whether you were flying or falling or soaring or drowning.

Chapter 23

I’d meant to be delightful when Caspian left, sending him across the ocean with the sweetness of my kisses lingering on his lips, but unfortunately our parting took place at 4 a.m. And so I was mainly half asleep, mumbly, and pathetic. I think I got my message across, though, especially when I wrapped my arms around his leg and wouldn’t let go.

“I’ll be back next Saturday,” he said, trying to sound exasperated and actually just laughing. “Please let go. I don’t want to be late.”

“No. I’m keeping you.”

“Arden.”

I whimpered tragically. “Promise you’ll come and see me straight away? As soon as you land?”

“It’s Eleanor’s birthday. Have you forgotten?”

Oh shit. Where had August gone? “Only technically.”

“How about”—he peeled my hand gently off his knee and gave it a squeeze—“I pick you up and we go together?”

That startled me almost awake. “You want to take me to…um…a family thing?”

“Why not? You were invited.”

“I know, but it seems serious, doesn’t it?”

“If you’re uncomfortable, I can meet you there.”

“No!” Oops. Capslock! Ardy Strikes Back. It was too late to sound nonchalant now, but I tried. “It’s cool.”

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