Page 81 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
We pass through another black velvet curtain into a large sitting room decorated by someone with a fond nostalgia for nineteenth-century French bordellos. Red velvet divans are scattered about, fringed with tassels. Elaborately carved gilt mirrors decorate the walls. A fire crackles in a fireplace against one wall, lending the room a warm glow.
I try to ignore the oil painting above the fireplace of the voluptuous nude woman lounging on a sofa with a white dog, but it’s so large it’s impossible. Her sly smile is vaguely disturbing.
We cross the empty sitting room and go through another curtain, and I’m wondering if the interior designer got a bulk discount on velvet drapes.
We pass through a bar and lounge that looks like something right out of an Edith Wharton novel. Everything supple leather, gleaming wood, and polished antiques. It reeks of upper-class privilege. So do the clientele: well-dressed gentlemen and ladies mingling with cocktails in hand, laughing quietly or engrossed in conversations. No one glances at us as we pass, which I’m grateful for, because I’m embarrassed by my outfit.
I’m sure I’m the only one here who shops at The Gap.
Finally we enter a large dining room. The main floor holds dozens of tables and quartets of large leather chairs. On one end of the room is a stage. The other three walls have private booths of
tufted carmine leather, set into large niches with curtains on either side held back with gold tassels.
At one of the booths sits Michael, drink in hand, watching the door.
We make eye contact across the room, my heart leaps into my throat, and I’m terrified all over again.
God, if you like me even a little, please don’t let me screw this up.
TWENTY-ONE
“Miss,” says Tuxedo Man, bowing. When he gestures toward Michael, I understand I’m to make the rest of the walk to his table alone.
“Keep it together,” I warn myself through stiff lips as I approach Michael’s table. “Don’t say anything stupid. Let him do the talking.”
He doesn’t take his gaze off me as I walk. By the time I reach him, my face is throbbing with heat.
“Hi,” I say shyly.
He stands, kisses me on both cheeks, and smiles down at me. “Hi yourself. Sit.”
I do, only it’s more like collapsing. He kissed me! On both cheeks!
“Do you like bourbon?” He pushes his drink across the table toward me.
No. Gross. “Yes! I love it!” Relieved to have something to do other than drool at him, I guzzle the drink. And immediately regret it.
I cough as fumes sear my nose and throat. My grimace of disgust could win an award.
Michael chuckles. “How about a glass of wine instead?”
I’m so embarrassed I could wrap myself in one of the stupid velvet curtains and spend the rest of eternity cocooned under the table, but I nod because a rational answer is expected. “Thanks.”
Michael signals for a waiter, who materializes from thin air. “Sir?”
“A bottle of the 2000 Romanée-Conti.”
The waiter bows so low it’s comical. It looks like a yoga pose.
“Right away, sir.”
He vanishes as quickly as he arrived, leaving me, Michael, and my raging insecurity alone.
Michael leans against the booth, stretches one arm along the back, and smiles. “You came.”
I know it’s just me, but that sounded super sexual. “Um. Yes. I c-came.”
He stares at me until I want to squirm. Then he reaches out and softly touches my cheek. “Your cheeks are burning, Joellen.”
