Page 44 of Dirty Little Secrets
“Of course, sir,” Harold says, and my fingers tingle. Over my dead body. “A table for four then?”
“That’s a kind offer,Quinton,” I state, contempt dripping from my tone. “But we wouldn’t want to ruin your evening.”
“Ruin? Ruin what?” He flashes a sleazy smile at Emery. “Dining withtwobeautiful women instead of one hardly ruins anything.” He glances at his date who remains distant and disinterested. “You wouldn’t mind company would you…?” He pauses, mildly wincing.
She mutters out her name.
Quin smiles. “Darla, that’s right.”
“Nope,” Darla says with a nonchalant shrug. “Fine by me. More the merrier, right?”
Quinton beams. “Precisely! More the merrier.” He looks at Emery who’s been awfully quiet, like a silent observer of a territorial dance. “What do you say, Emery darling? I think it would be fun, don’t you?”
Bile creeps up my throat at his nickname for her. He shouldn’t be saying her name at all. And especially with such familiarity as if he knows her. He doesn’t. And he never will.
“We appreciate the offer but?—”
“We’d love to,” Emery says, flashing me a combative side-eye. My muscles clam up at the blatant disrespect.
“Lovely!” Quinton exclaims, meddling excitement oozing from his villainous pores. He nods at Harold. “After you.”
I grab Emery’s elbow as she lets Quinton and his date lead the way to the table. “What are you doing?” I seethe. “Don’t you remember what I told you in the car?”
She glances down at my stern hold, jaw tight. “If you don’t let go of me in one second, you’ll be dining alone.”
“I’m sorry,” I breathe out, disgusted at my reaction. “I didn't mean to.” Closing my eyes, I swallow, feeling small and weak. “Why did you agree? We could’ve?—”
“You said business comes first, didn’t you?” she asks, finding my weary gaze. I frown. “Well, Quin seems to know you in a way that I don’t, Mr. Cavanaugh, and I like to do my due diligence before I go into business with someone.” She nods into the restaurant. “Think of this as character testimony.”
“A character testimony? Am I on trial, Miss Jones?”My lip twitches. “Quinton Marquis isnotmy friend. If you think he’ll adorn me with raving reviews, you are sorely mistaken.”
Emery casts me a sly smile. “I’m aware, Mr. Cavanaugh, which is why this dinner might be more fruitful than if it were with a friend.” She tilts her head. “Friends tend to sugarcoat. They’re not very objective.”
“If you’re looking for an objective account of my intentions, Miss Jones,” I hiss. “Quinton is the last person you’d want to talk to.”
“Be that as it may,” she sighs, quickening her pace as we weave through the restaurant. “I’d like to cover my bases before I agree to something that I may regret.”
“You don’t trust me?” I whisper as we stop a couple of feet away from the table.
She blinks at me, stifling a laugh. “Please. Why should I?”
“I—” Defeat washes over me. I thought we were past that. I thought I crashed through her reserve. I thought she was finally starting to see what I see, what I feel.
“Are you going to stand there and quarrel all evening?” Quinton asks, drawing our attention. He perks an overzealous brow. “Let’s save the fighting for dessert, shall we? Please, sit down.” He smirks at me. “Both of you.”
Begrudgingly, I settle into my seat next to Emery and open the menu. A waiter comes around with a bottle of red wine. I place a hand over my glass, shaking my head.
“Still?” Quinton asks as Emery also politely declines a glass and orders sparkling water. Quinton twists hislips up, staring at her. “I know why Cavanaugh doesn’t drink. Why don’t you?”
“I never understood why people think it’s so scandalous when you don’t drink alcohol,” Emery says lightly, unfolding a napkin on her lap. “I doubt someone who refuses mayonnaise would get the same inquisition.”
Quin chuckles. “Perhaps because those who avoid condiments are simply picky eaters. If you don’t drink alcohol, then there’s probably a story behind it.” His gaze darts to me, and I clam up. “Isn’t that right, Cavanaugh?”
I clench my jaw.
Emery tilts her head, her auburn curls spilling over her shoulder. “What is it with you people and stories? Is your own life so dull that you need to pry into other people’s lives for entertainment?”
“You people?” Quin perks up a brow. “And what sort of people are you referring to?”
