I pinch my eyes shut in confusion. “You own…this place?”
“Yup.”
I’m rendered speechless for a moment. I look around the room lit entirely by candlelight. “The building insurance must be astronomical.” He lets out a loud laugh.
“Christ, Tristan, we are worlds apart.” I look at him doubtfully. “I don’t even own my own car yet. The only thing Megan and I can afford to buy together is a bottle of wine. We aren’t on an even keel here.”
“It’s okay.” He winks. “Next time you can cook me dinner.”
“Champagne, miss?” Two glasses of champagne materialise in front of us.
“Yes, thank you.” I smile politely. The wall-to-ceiling mirror lit with candles creates the illusion that there is an army of servers serving us. Will they be here the whole time, watching and listening to us? The room is so echoey with just the two of us.
Tristan raises his glass, and I clink mine with his. I take a sip, and it’s delicious. It tastes expensive.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Tristan comments. “Clean, crisp…you can really taste the honey, can’t you?”
That’s nice. My only requirement with champagne is that it doesn’t leave me bent over with trapped wind. I make a mental note to learn some swanky phrases about champagne.
I nod, making a deep hmmm sound.
“The French chef is known for his creative style of cooking.” He grins as he follows my gaze to the menu. “It’s why we chose him. Some of the dishes aren’t for the faint-hearted.” Escargots. They’re quite nice, I can handle those.
Sauteed frog legs. Mmm, guess I could give one a go. Tagine of Goat! I could pretend it’s chicken.
“Tartare de Cheval?” I say loudly. “Is that…”
Holy Mary, Mother of –
“Horse tartare,” he finishes, giving me a wicked smile.
I swallow hard. I’ll have to subtly check my phone to see if these things trigger irritable bowel symptoms.
“Anything can taste amazing if it’s cooked right.” His eyes twinkle. “I’m very adventurous. You were warned.”
Are we still talking about food?
“I ordered last time,” I say, feeling brave. I close the menu. “You have carte blanche to order whatever you want for both of us. Except for the horse. Anything but horse.”
He grins and beckons the waiter over. “We’ll start with a selection of all the starters and bring us a bottle of the 2009 Pauillac,” he informs the waiter. “Except the Tartare de Cheval,” he adds as an afterthought.
“I said carte blanche for us two, not the whole restaurant,” I hiss as the waiter walks away. “How will we eat ten starters between us? Are you some type of feeder?”
He chuckles. “I want you to have the chance to experience everything.”
“That’s so wasteful.”
His eyes flash. I guess he’s a man who’s not used to being chastised.
I take a gulp of champagne to calm my nerves.
He leans forward tenting his fingers together on the tabletop. “You’re nervous.”
I bite my lip. How could I not be? I’m trapped in a sexy fire hazard with no windows and the hottest, most intimidating male I’ve ever clapped eyes on, about to be served frogs’ legs. Which isn’t exactly the sexiest food, is it?
What would have happened if Edward Lewis had ordered frogs’ legs for Vivian in Pretty Woman instead of the strawberries?
“A little,” I admit. Having dinner with him in Mykonos was fun and carefree, now knowing who he was…this feels weighted. “This is so normal to you, private dining at an exclusive restaurant. Not to me.”
His brows rise. “Eating with you isn’t normal to me. I’ve been looking forward to this since I stood up in front of you and welcomed the new trainees.”
I swirl the champagne in my flute, stumped for words. Why? I want to ask him.
His hand disappears under the table and finds its way onto my bare thigh. “Tell me about growing up in Wales. You didn’t talk much about it in Mykonos.”
“There’s not much to know,” I say as the waiter approaches with our wine. “My mum came over from Croatia when she was twenty. She worked in London, met my dad, followed him to Wales, and never left. She’s a bit of a hippy.”
“They still live in Wales?” he asks after thanking the waiter.
“Mum does.” I clear my throat. “My dad…I don’t know where he is. I’ve never met him.”
His expression softens and he takes my smaller hand in his large one. “I’m sorry. Was it just you and your mum growing up?”
I nod, swallowing. “Although there were always people in and out of the house, friends of hers who would come and go.”
“Was that good?” he asks, concerned.
“Sometimes. Other times…no.” Christ, this date is going to end up as a counselling session too.
“What does she do?” he asks, lifting the wine glass to his lips.
“Sometimes she works in a friend’s restaurant. Every now and then she helps a friend with a cleaning job. She’s…a bit flaky.” My cheeks heat. “That’s why I need this job. I can’t mess it up.”
He squeezes my hand gently. “Your contract is safe,” he says in a low voice as our starters arrive. He ordered so much food that it had to be wheeled out on a trolley because the table wasn’t big enough. If I ever treat him to dinner, I’m putting a cap on the number of dishes he orders. “And from what I can see you’re a very intelligent, conscientious lawyer. You’ll do well. Stop worrying about what others think. Now, let’s feed you some fine French cuisine.”
My cheeks heat at the compliment. “Do you care what others think, Tristan?” The waitstaff leave us alone in the room.
I stare at the frogs’ legs swimming in garlic butter.
His eyes flicker to my lips as he watches me drink the last of the champagne. “Only people who are worth it. Like my family. My son.” He chuckles. “Although these days I think he sees me as an embarrassing father. I’m kissing him in front of his friends too much outside the school gate, he said.”
“What age is he?” I ask as I grasp a snail in my tongs. This could go very badly. Butter drips out but I catch it just in time with a napkin.
“Seven,” he replies, his eyes twinkling in amusement as I fumble with the slippery fucker. “He’s growing up so quickly. I do a double take on some of the questions he asks me. The other day he was a bit naughty at school so I threatened I would tell Santa. Then he started asking loads of questions on exactly how I would ask Santa. He asked me if I would contact him on Instagram.”
Finally, I extract the snail meat with the tiny two-pronged fork. “Is he on Instagram? Your son I mean, not Santa, obviously.”
A warm garlic rubbery sensation explodes in my mouth and oh my God, damn. “This is amazing!” I reach for another one and pick it out of its shell. “Bloody hell, I never knew snails could taste so good. What is happening in my mouth?”
Tristan watches me, laughing. “Easy there, don’t eat too many, they’re quite rich. No. He knows of all the social media sites, but he’s not allowed his own account yet.” He shudders. “He’s way too young. He said his classmate told him Santa wasn’t real. He can smell bullshit. He asked so many questions that eventually I had to break the news that I was Santa.”
“How did he take it?”
“I think I was more upset than he was.”
“I just realised I don’t even know your son’s name.”
“Daniel.” A smile sweeps across his face. “He’s named after Danny Walker. Danny’s his godfather.
“That’s sweet, you and Danny must be very close.” I hesitate. “Is it hard not living with him permanently?”
His expression darkens. “Yes. It kills me every day.”