There’s a knock on the bedroom door and Frank the Shagger pops his head in.
I glare at him. I still haven’t forgiven him for mistaking my bedroom for the bathroom.
“Ah, come on, don’t look at me like that,” he says. “You’re still huffing with me over a little mistake? I said I would do your cleaning slot for four weeks.”
“That’s only useful if you actually clean,” I reply dryly. “Hiding things in cupboards is not cleaning.”
“Says who? Anyway, I came to tell you, there’s a bloke here to see you. He looks fancy.”
I turn to Megan in horror. “He’s twenty minutes early!”
Frank shrugs. “He’s in the living room.”
My spine jerks upright. “You let him into the living room?” He gives me a blank stare. “Yeah, why not?”
“No, no, no!” I leap up, trying to locate my shoes.
Locating the second shoe under the bed, I barge past Frank and race down the stairs with Megan hot on my heels. I fire open the living room door.
“Tristan!” I greet him, flustered. “I ” I stop talking.
Oh.
He looks devastatingly handsome. I can’t even put my finger on why. He is leaning against the wall, looking completely out of place and too big for the room. He’s wearing jeans and a shirt that strains against his wide chest. He looks completely different than he did this afternoon. More like the Tristan I met in Mykonos.
One of his eyebrows rise as he takes a slow step forward. “Elly, you look beautiful.” “Thanks,” I say breathily.
His gaze falls to the cut of my breasts in my dress, trailing a line down my stomach to my bare legs so slowly and purposefully, I have to look down to check I’m wearing underwear.
Someone clears their throat from the sofa. I turn to see my army of housemates watching us.
Did they all have to make their presence known at this particular moment? Three of Frank’s friends are sprawled out across the sofa and the floor, watching what appears to be bear attacks streaming from YouTube. The kitchen-hogging couple have formed a brass band with pots and pans, as they do every night. Their washing is drying all over the living room. Isn’t there some sort of etiquette about not drying your underwear in a house-share communal area?
I eye Rafal’s friend, Martina, suspiciously. She doesn’t live here, yet I see her here every night.
Has she moved in on the sly?
Well done flashes in her eyes at me as she gives Tristan a greedy once-over.
“Let’s get out of here,” I mumble awkwardly, trying to ignore the gawking eyeballs. What I mean is, get the hell out of here before any of my housemates say anything to show me up.
Megan hands me my coat and bag, giving me a conspicuous wink, and I shepherd him out the front door.
Nerves clutch my stomach as he walks me to the Aston Martin where George is waiting in the driver’s seat.
George gives me a polite nod.
“Interesting bunch of tenants,” Tristan observes, arching a brow. “It was like separate groups of people taking up space in the living room but ignoring each other.”
“Welcome to living in the real London.”
He opens the car door to let me in, then pauses to take my jaw in his hand.
My breath hitches as I wait to be kissed.
He inches closer, his breath hot on my face.
God, the suspense.
He tilts my face to the side. “You have a few smudges on your cheek. Are they pencil marks?”
Damn you, Megan, and your epic contour fail. “Must be pencil marks, yup,” I mutter, stepping out of his hold to rub my cheek violently.
***
As we approach Clapham, I start to get excited. Really excited. A reservation to this place is gold dust. I would have said yes to the devil himself if he offered me dinner at Asha’s, the most coveted restaurant in London. It recently snagged the third Michelin star and was the driving force behind the rush of celebrity sightings south of the Thames.
The fluttery feeling swirls in my stomach. Never a good thing for a bowel disease sufferer visiting a lavish restaurant with the casting member of their raunchy dreams.
What if I’m not dressed fancy enough for this place? I’m wearing a flowing dress and dressy sneakers. Sneakers are acceptable now so long as you don’t actually do sports in them, right?
Tristan leans over and takes my hand. “Elly, tonight, I want you to forget I own Madison. I’m just the guy you met on holidays. A guy that has given you no reason not to trust him. Can you do that?”
I look back into those intense eyes and read a hint of vulnerability there. “Yes,” I answer and I mean it.
We pull up outside the unassuming grey doorway on a quiet side street just off Clapham High Street. You would be forgiven for mistaking it for a warehouse rather than an exclusive and hideously expensive high-toned French restaurant.
As we get out of the car, a hostess appears from out of nowhere. She flashes a predatory smile at Tristan and puts her hand on his lower back, ignoring me. “Mr. Kane,” she purrs. “Right this way.” My hackles rise.
Taking my hand in his, he leads me down the stairs lit only by candlelight to the restaurant in the basement.
It’s not often a restaurant makes me horny, but this is the sexiest damn restaurant I’ve ever set foot in.
I enter first, his hand on the small of my back as he follows behind me. It’s hard to miss the heads turning at each table as we walk through the dimly lit basement. Whether they recognise him or are just blown away by the broad-shouldered, ridiculously handsome bloke, it’s hard to tell. If he notices the attention, he doesn’t let on.
I scan the sea of heads and see some vaguely familiar faces. Is that guy from The Apprentice? More importantly, I make a mental note of where the toilets are.
We stop at dark red velvet curtains.
“This way, sir.” Eye-fucking Tristan, the hostess pulls up the curtains to reveal a door underneath and pushes it open. We walk into a room that is all darkness, mirrors and candles with a single table for two in the middle.
I look around, bewildered. “Are we the only ones in here?”
“The private room is by request,” Tristan explains casually as we are led to the table.
He pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down.
“Let me take your coat, sir,” the hostess says in her phone-sex voice. In the process of pushing his coat down and off his shoulders, she gives him an unnecessary rubdown that airport security staff would be proud of.
He pulls out the chair opposite, inches it closer to mine, then sits down.
“How did you get a table here last minute?” I ask as three waiters fuss over us, pouring water and fluffing napkins. “Isn’t it notorious for being booked up months in advance?”
He leans back in his seat, his legs spreading so that our knees touch under the table.
“I own the restaurant with Danny.”