Page 38 of Wicked Dance
Blitz lifts the back of my hand to his lips. “You look dazzling. Here’s to nobody noticing but me.”
“Agreed,” I say. “To quiet times and just us.”
“And good food,” he adds. “Your aerial stunts made me hungry.”
Ted opens the door. We’ve just stepped out when the door beneath the awning opens. A uniformed man stands there.
“Good evening, Mr. Craven,” he says. “I didn’t see you on tonight’s list.”
“It’s under Preston Rivers,” Blitz says. “We’ve inspired a bit of a following lately.”
“Understood,” the man says. “Give me just a moment and we’ll relocate Mr. Rivers’s reservation to a more private spot in the restaurant.”
“I’ll be close by,” Ted says and heads back to the car.
We wait on a small bench in the back corner of the restaurant. The dining area is designed for privacy, with multiple walls and large plants throughout it. After a moment, the man returns. “This way, please.”
Our seat is set apart from the others, a round booth in a corner with high walls. But we do pass several tables to get to it, and it’s clear several people have recognized us.
I slide into the booth. “Let’s hope none of them have Twitter,” I mumble as Blitz sits next to me.
“You can’t get in here without a reservation. We might have people stop by, but a mob can’t get to us.”
I’m more rattled than I thought I would be. Maybe we should have stayed in. But we can’t hide in the hotel forever.
“Surely everyone is having their Valentine’s dates and not worrying about where we are,” I say.
“Sure, unless you don’t have a Valentine’s date and want to wreck someone else’s.”
The wine steward approaches and Blitz orders. The waiter brings bread, and we start to settle down. Each minute that passes makes it more likely we’ll have a peaceful meal.
“This is good,” Blitz says, dipping bread in olive oil and lifting it to my lips. His thumb runs along my cheek as I bite it.
Yes, this is fine. We’ll be fine here. I force myself to be calm.
We order prime rib and pasta and everything we’ll have to work off tomorrow. The restaurant is full of quiet murmurs and the clinking of silverware on fine china.
Dinner goes along easily and with no disruptions. We were right to come here.
The waiter has just brought us an impossibly beautiful crème brûlée to share when I feel Blitz’s hand tighten around mine on the seat. “Here we go,” he says.
I turn to follow his gaze.
And freeze.
It’s Giselle. Holding her phone.
“Just a quick selfie,” she says, leaning down to snap a quick picture of herself and Blitz.
He tries to lean away, but she’s fast. I can see from the image that she’s left me out.
“Giselle,” Blitz says. “What are you doing here?”
“Just making sure my Valentine doesn’t try to go the whole day without me!” Her voice is high and fake.
Blitz’s words are low and threatening when he says, “I’m not your anything.”
My face is hot and I can feel the food we just ate sitting heavily in my belly. I’m so angry I could actually stand up and punch this woman.
