Page 1 of Where There's A Will
1
Montana
“Happy Anniversary, babe.”
Hugo clinked his glass with mine and I beamed.
“Happy Anniversary, Hugo.”
It was our one-year anniversary, and Hugo suggested dinner at his favourite restaurant, an upscale steakhouse in Manhattan. The alarm bells should have been ringing then—hisfavourite restaurant. Notourfavourite restaurant. We’d been here a couple of times before, but somehow this time felt different. Our table wasn’t ready so we were waiting at the bar, perched on stools to one side.
Hugo was acting weird. He’d bought a bottle of champagne and downed three glasses straight, barely stopping to take a breath, while I sipped mine. He fiddled with his phone while we were talking. Not that it was unusual for him, but it was quite distracting on what was supposed to be a special occasion.
I wondered what he was so on edge about. A million things flashed through my mind.
He was going to ask me to move in with him.
He was going to ask me to meet his parents.
He was going to ask me to marry him.
My stomach fizzed with excitement at any of those options.
It had only been a year for us, though I had friends with relationships who had moved on a lot quicker than this. A few months, then the engagement parties and the wedding invites were being sent out. I was a teeny bit jealous and on each significant date, I wondered if it was ever going to happen to me.
While Hugo drank more, I studied him. The slightly long, floppy hair and the way he ran his hand through it I found so endearing. The chocolate-brown eyes I only had to look in too long and I was melting. I sighed contentedly. Yes, maybe tonight was the night our relationship moved on to the next level.
“Do you want another drink?” Hugo waved the empty bottle at me.
I blinked. I’d barely had any, yet there wasn’t another drop left. Had he really drunk all that so quickly? He must be nervous.
“I guess. Don’t you think you should slow down though? We haven’t eaten yet.”
It wasn’t like me to be so cautious; usually I was the one downing wine or cocktails and Hugo was the one carrying me home. If he was going to pop the question, I needed to be sober and not have him ask me through an alcoholic haze. Although if he drank much more, the tables would likely be turned.
“Mmm, maybe you’re right.” He pushed the menu in my direction. “Any idea of what you’re going to have?”
My eyes scanned the options. The last time we’d been here I’d had the most delicious piece of fillet steak with béarnaise sauce and fries. Was my choice special enough for an occasion like this? I noticed there was a chateaubriand sharing platter. Perhaps that would be a better option. My stomach rumbled in anticipation. If we didn’t get to the table soon, I was going to start gnawing on the bar.
Hugo tried to catch the bartender’s eye; however the guy simply swanned past him and asked someone to Hugo’s left what they wanted. My boyfriend’s eyes narrowed. I could tell he was pissed about being ignored.Please God, don’t let him make a scene.
Against my better judgement, I tried to get the bartender’s attention. After a couple of minutes of polite waving and smiling, he came to a halt in front of me.
“What can I get you?”
I thought I detected a British accent, but there was so much background noise, I could have been mistaken. Pointing at the bottle in Hugo’s hand, I said “Another one of those, please. Can you put it on the bill?”
The bartender glanced in Hugo’s direction and I swore he rolled his eyes. Without a word, he replaced the empty bottle with a full one and headed off to the other end of the bar. Ignoring his bad customer-service skills, I looked over in the direction of the hostess stand.
“I’m starving,” I said. “I hope we can eat soon.”
“Mmm, me too.” Hugo poured himself another glass, spilling some over the side, the cold liquid splashing onto his light-coloured trousers. “Ugh, I’m going to need to go and dry this off.” Before he could slip off his stool, the hostess came over.
“Your table is ready,” she said, smiling at us, taking the menus from the bar.
As Hugo slid off the bar stool, she placed a hand on his back in a rather overfamiliar way. My brows rose, then I shook off any doubts. She was probably making sure he didn’t face-plant onto the floor and file a lawsuit against the restaurant. Where there’s a blame, there’s a claim.
We followed her across the restaurant, to an intimate corner table. The bubbling in my stomach started again. If he was going to ask me anything, it was the perfect setting. There were enough people around who would be able to congratulate us, but not so many I’d be the centre of attention.
