Page 22 of Endurance
“You, uh…” I gesture toward my lips and she immediately touches her mouth.
“Will you excuse me?”
I nod and she gets up and walks toward the toilets.
I take the moment of solitude to give myself a quick pep talk so I can get out of my head once and for all. I’ve been going about this situation all wrong. I’ve only been thinking about myself and haven’t been listening to what she needs out of this. I need to quit being the Tanner Harris I’ve been for the last couple of months and start being the Tanner Harris that Vi would expect of me. This arrangement is important for Belle’s job, too, and it’s time I be considerate of that.
When she gets back, she barely sits down on her stool before I puke out the words that have been rolling around in my mouth. “I’m sorry, Belle. I said stupid things. Awful things. I was being a prat and only thinking of myself and you didn’t deserve that. I’m also sorry for attacking you out there like that without any warning. I just…felt everybody surrounding us, and it was the only thing I could think of to salvage this evening. I am sorry.”
“You called me Belle again,” she replies, frowning.
After everything I said, her response is unexpected.
“Do you prefer I continue calling you Ryan?”
She adamantly shakes her head. “No, no, it’s just something I’ve notice you do when you’re not being the arrogant arse the papers all portray you to be.”
I swallow a drink of my now slightly warm beer and mull over her observation. I guess I started calling her Ryan after that night at Old George when I realised we could never be anything more than acquaintances. Maybe it helped establish some boundaries for me. Boundaries seem rather irrelevant now.
She interrupts my thoughts. “I’m sorry, too, for erm…throwing my wine in your face.”
I smile. I can’t believe I’m smiling. A crazy chick tossed a drink in my face and I’m smiling at her like she couldn’t possibly help herself. “It’s okay.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not. It’s awful. I have a hair-trigger temper and it gets me in trouble…a lot.”
My brows climb. “What kind of trouble? Like at work?”
“No, actually. That’s the one place I’m completely level-headed. I think the drama of the medical situations I’m faced with are so intense there’s not really room for me to be irrational.” The waitress sets fresh drinks down between us and we both take a necessary gulp. “My family life, on the other hand, is a whole other story.”
“You said you and your dad aren’t close?”
“No. I’m not close with any of my family. All of this”—she gestures to her face and body—“is just a bit much for their scene.” She lets out a sad sort of self-deprecating laugh that bothers me.
I eye her objectively for a minute and can’t find a single flaw. “What does that mean?”
Her dark eyes pin me with a look that tells me she thinks I’m clueless. “It means that if I would have tossed my wine on anybody intheirsocial circle, I would be written out of the will.” She pauses and frowns at me. “Why is it you seem to be so forgiving?”
“For you throwing wine on me in public?”
She nods.
I shrug. “I guess I can admire someone who’s passionate about their convictions, even if it is at the expense of mine.”
“Aren’t you equally passionate?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m quite laid back for the most part. Growing up with four siblings and a father who cares more about football than he does about anything else sort of forces you to be.”
“Then we’re a match made in heaven, Tanner, because mypassion, as you so kindly called it, usually sends men running for the hills.” She looks at me for a few seconds. “Then again, I forgot the fact that you are not here by choice.”
The chef behind the counter interrupts our quickly darkening conversation by serving us several small plates of food. It all looks and smells amazing. Plus, I think we both know that more eating and less talking is probably for the best.
We tuck into it all like it’s our last meal. I don’t know what the majority of the food is when the waitress tells us all about the various sauces and seasonings, but I don’t have to understand what I’m eating to know it’s incredible. Belle seems to be enjoying it just as much. I guess this would be a perk of monogamous dating. Restaurants, good food, good drinks, attractive company. I can see the appeal.
But nothing about the night tops the way Belle’s eyes light up when she sees they have a dark chocolate ganache truffle dessert. She looks like a kid getting a puppy on Christmas morning. It’s sweet and hilarious and innocent.
Watching her eat it, however, is the exact opposite description. Her large, touched-up lips wrap around the spoon of chocolate like she’s devouring the most sensual thing on the planet. I suppose it is to her. To me, I’m envisioning something a bit more salty tasting.
My dick twitches as I recall her referring to dark chocolate as a religion before. I can’t help but feel like I’m witnessing a religious experience. She offers me a bite on more than one occasion, but I refuse because I don’t want to take a single bit away from the show I’m enjoying more than I care to admit. It’s ten times better than any foreplay I’ve ever had.
