Page 81 of Ice Darling
“He already arranged everything. All we have to do is sit down and wait for him.”
She seems set on it, and I can’t come up with a proper reason for going somewhere else, so I drive us to the restaurant.
Once we get there, I open Cordelia’s car door for her and marvel at my own mental breakdown. Was it a good idea to push myself into the dinner tonight? This woman is scrambling my brain cells, and I don’t feel like myself. I feel like someone much younger, much pettier, and with fewer responsibilities.
“Are you angry?” The question comes along with a soft touch on my arm. Cordelia looks up at me, her hair messy from the drive. “Do you regret coming with me?”
I shake my head.
“You can go home if you want,” she offers. The way she tucks her bottom lip into her mouth tells me she’d prefer if I didn’t.
You’re being a buffoon, Renthrow. She has no idea what set you off, and now, she’s going to think she has to tiptoe around your feelings.
I force myself not to sulk anymore. It’s embarrassing enough that I have to take her out to eat under some other guy’s reservation. I can’t act like a child about it too.
Reaching out, I smooth the flyaway strands of her black hair. The stress lines in Cordelia’s forehead smooth out, and her face softens. I take my time brushing her hair back into place.
With a deep breath, I steady my emotions and lead her into the fancy restaurant.
It’s the complete opposite of The Tipsy Tuna. This place has pretentious marble floors, high ceilings, and way too many chandeliers. I wonder how much this all costs to build?
Cordelia approaches the guy standing behind a podium. “Albert?”
“Miss Davenport. Welcome!” Albert grins from ear to ear. “It’s been a while. How’s your mother?”
“She’s well.”
The two chat, and I notice how at ease Cordelia is in this environment.
What’d you expect? She’s a Davenport.
I push my discomfort deep down. Davenport or not, she’s a lady in my company, and I’ve already prepared myself to take care of the bill—no matter how horrific the number is.
Albert leads us to our table. On the way, I notice the food being delivered. The portions are smaller than what I serve to Gordie. Where’s the rest of the meat? Where’s the potatoes and rice?
My stomach weeps. Drizzling sauce in a fancy line and throwing leaves on top of raw beef is probably all I have to look forward to tonight.
“Sir.” A waiter pulls out my chair for me while another across the table does the same for Cordelia.
“Thank you,” Cordelia says, and to my astonishment, she slips the man a hundred-dollar bill.
I barely hide my surprise.
Cordelia explains when the waiters have left, “I usually tip first. It’s a way to guarantee good service.”
She says it like it makes sense, so I just nod to avoid looking like an uncultured idiot.
A completely new waiter arrives and asks us what we’d like to drink. I haven’t even gotten to look at the menu—out of pure self-preservation—but Cordelia confidently picks the booklet up.
She slides her finger down the menu and says something in perfect French. “Do you have that one?”
“Very good choice, ma’am. And for you, sir?”
“I, well…” I pick up the menu. “I’m not much of a wine guy.” Throat constricting, I close the booklet. “I’m driving, so I’ll just have water.”
The waiter’s lips twitch. “Very well, sir.”
Is he laughing at me? Is Cordelia? I probably look as out of place as I feel. Talk to me about hockey or math or child-rearing, and I’ll stand ten-toes-down on business. But this world of fancy wine and chandeliers…is foreign to me.
