I watch the Adam’s apple bob. “X. Thank you for joining me.” That voice, like boulders crashing down a canyon wall.
I didn’t have a choice, did I? But of course, these words remain lodged in my throat, alongside my heart and my breath. Careful steps in high heels across the wide room. Come to a halt beside the table. I watch long legs take a few short strides, and I’m staring up at a strong, clean-shaven jawline, glittering dark eyes.
“Caleb,” I breathe.
“Welcome to Rhapsody.”
“You rented out the entire restaurant?” I questioned.
“Not rented so much as ordered them to close it down for the evening.”
“You own it, then?”
A rare full smile. “I own the building, and everything in it.”
“Oh.”
A twitch of a finger, gesturing at my chair. “Sit, please.”
I sit, fold my hands on my lap. “Caleb, if I may ask—”
“You may not.” Strong fingers lift a butter knife, tap on the wineglass gently, the crystal ringing loudly in the silence. “Let’s have the food brought out and then we’ll discuss things.”
“Very well.” I duck my head. Focus on breathing, on slowing my heart rate.
I feel rather than see or hear the presence of someone else. Look up, a man of indeterminate age stands beside the table. He could be thirty-five, he could be fifty. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, young and intelligent eyes, light brown hair, receding hairline.
“Sir, madam. Would you care to see a menu?”
“No, Gerald, that’s fine. We’ll start with the soup du jour, followed by the house salad. No onions on mine. The filetmignon for me, medium rare. Tell Jean-Lucjustthis side of rare. Not quite bloody. For the lady, she’ll have the salmon. Vegetables and mashed potatoes for the both of us.”
Apparently I’m having salmon. I’d have rather had the filet mignon as well, but I hadn’t been given a preference and I didn’t dare protest. This was abnormal in the extreme, and I wasn’t about to have anything else taken away.
“Very good, sir.” Gerald lifts the bottle of white wine. “Shall I present this, sir?”
“No, I did choose it myself, after all. Marcos should have set out a bottle of red for us as well. Have that opened to breathe, and serve it with the entrées.”
“Very good, sir. Will there be anything else I can do for you at this moment?”
“Yes. Have the quartet play the suite in G major instead of the B minor.”
“Of course, sir. Thank you.” Gerald bows at the waist, deeply.
He then scurries and weaves between the tables, whispers to the viola player, who holds up a hand, and the other three players let their instruments quaver into silence. A brief meeting of heads, and then they strike up again, a different melody, this time. Returning, Gerald uncorks the wine with elaborate ceremony and pours a measure in each of our glasses, hands me mine first.
I shouldn’t be nervous to take a drink, but I am. I drink tea and water, exclusively. I have no memory of drinking anything but tea and water.
What will wine be like, I wonder?
It’s the little things; focus on the minor to keep one’s self from hyperventilating about the major.
I watch, mimic: forefinger, middle finger, and thumb on the middle of the stem, lift carefully. Take the tiniest of sips. Wet my lips with the cool liquid. Lick my lips. Shock ripples over me. Thetaste is... like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Not quite sweet, not quite sour, but a little of both of those things. An explosive flavor bursting on my tongue.
Dark eyes watch me carefully, following every move, following my tongue as I run it along my lips once more. Watch me as I take another sip, an actual sip, this time. A small mouthful. Roll it around my mouth, coolness on my tongue, a starburst of flavor, tingling, sparkling. Light, fruity.
It’s so good I could cry. The best thing I’ve ever tasted.
“Like it?” That deep, rumbling voice, following a long casual sip, the glass replaced on the table, adjusted precisely so.
