“Go ahead,” I say to the men. “I’m still looking.”
“Ribeye, please,” Raylan says. “Bloody, with a baked potato.”
“I’ll have the chicken and capers,” Dean says virtuously. He hands his menu to the waiter and winks at me. “I plan to live past a hundred.”
“I’ll trade a decade or two for steak,” Raylan says, totally unconcerned.
I can’t help smiling a little. “I’ll have the ribeye, too,” I say to the waiter.
Dean looks betrayed.
I shrug. “I’m hungry.”
When the waiter leaves us alone again, an awkward silence falls over the table. Dean tries a new conversational tactic, which I suspect is designed to exclude Raylan.
“I saw the Art Institute is showing an exhibit of El Greco,” he says. “I got tickets for us.”
That actually does excite me. “Thank you,” I say. “I’d love to go.”
Dean looks pleased with himself. Not content with that victory, he says, “I guess we’ll need a ticket for your bodyguard, too. Are you a fan of painting, Raylan?”
“Not really,” Raylan says, shrugging.
“You don’t like Renaissance art?” Dean smirks.
Raylan takes a piece of bread from the basket in the middle of the table and spreads a generous layer of butter.
“Well, El Greco isn’t really Renaissance, is he?” he says, taking a large bite of his bread.
“What do you mean?” Dean frowns.
“Well . . . ” Raylan chews and swallows. “The way he stretched out his people and made ‘em all dramatic. Wouldn’t you call that Mannerism?”
Now I really can’t help laughing, even though it turns the foolish look on Dean’s face to a downright scowl.
Raylan shrugs. “We got books in Tennessee,” he says blandly. “Even a museum or two.”
The steak comes to the table on sizzling, five-hundred-degree platters, drenched in butter and parsley. The two-pound baked potatoes are piled with sour cream and hunks of bacon. The scent of grilled meat is heavenly.
Raylan and I attack our food like ravenous dogs. I haven’t eaten a thing since coffee that morning. The rich, fatty rib-eye is soft enough to cut with a fork. It melts away on my tongue, intensely satisfying.
Dean cuts his chicken breast into small cubes, sour-faced.
I can see Raylan wants to tease him about his order, but he refrains.
Feeling just a little bit bad for Dean, since my own meal is so damned delicious, I ask him about his surgery that afternoon.
Dean perks up, launching into a long and detailed description of the complicated thoracotomy that was brought to his hospital specifically for him, because he’s the only surgeon in the city with a 100% success rate on that particular procedure.
On that topic, the rest of the dinner passes by.
“Does anyone want dessert?” I ask the two men. “Or another drink?”
“I’m stuffed,” Raylan says.
“Me too,” Dean says, less truthfully. He only ate half his chicken. I think he’s had enough of this strange date.
“I’ll get the check,” I say.
“I already paid it,” Raylan says.
“What? When?” I demand.
“I gave the waiter my card last time he came around.”
“You’re not supposed to buy my meals,” I inform him. “If anything, you should be getting reimbursed for yours.”
Raylan shrugs.
I know he was probably trying to avoid the awkwardness of Dean feeling obligated to pay for all three of us. But Dean seems more annoyed by this outcome, where Raylan has shown him up in foresight and chivalry.
“Let’s get going then,” Dean says brusquely. “Are you coming back to my place, Riona?”
That’s our usual routine, the one or two nights a week that we meet for a proper date. But I don’t really see how that’s going to work with Raylan tagging along after me everywhere I go. Is Raylan going to lurk in Dean’s living room, while Dean and I head upstairs to the bedroom to knock boots?
“I think I’d better not,” I say, with a glance toward the obvious impediment.
Dean gives a huff of frustration. “Of course,” he says. “I’m leaving then. I assume Raylan can help you call a cab.”
With surprising consideration, Raylan hangs back so I can have a little privacy walking out with Dean.
“How long is this going to go on?” Dean demands.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he says. “What’s the reason for this? Because if he’s some old boyfriend, or—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap. “I was attacked last night.”
“You . . . what?” Dean’s expression changes from annoyance to alarm. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“I don’t want anyone making a fuss. Especially not you. But that’s why he’s following me around for now.”
“Are you alright?” Dean asks, more gently.
“I’m fine,” I say. “You’ll just have to be patient with a third wheel for a while.”
Dean sighs. “Alright,” he says, kissing me softly on the forehead. I really don’t like when he does that, but I tolerate it because I know this wasn’t the most pleasant evening for him.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say.
“Please do.”
I watch him jump in his Porsche and speed off in the direction of his house up in Streeterville.
I can feel Raylan standing behind me, close but not so close that he’s towering over me.
“Back home, then?” he says.
“No.” I shake my head. “Let’s go meet up with my brother. I want to know what he’s found out about that diver. No offense, but I don’t want to make this a permanent arrangement.”
“Sure.” Raylan smiles. “I get it. I spoil the romantic ambiance. I bet Dean is a real charmer when it’s just the two of you.”
There’s no edge to his words. If I’d only just met him, I’d think he meant it sincerely enough.
But already, I’m getting to know Raylan enough that I catch the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He doesn’t like Dean. And he doesn’t give a damn if I know it.
6
Raylan
Riona and I take an Uber over to Callum’s apartment, with a detour by the Gallo house. I don’t like us hopping in and out of hired cars. I want to be able to drive Riona myself, in a vehicle I know is safe.
So we borrow one from Dante.
It’s the same Escalade he and I drove around in last time I was in town. I sink down into the driver’s seat, into the dent made by Dante’s bulk. Riona seems similarly at home in the car, setting her water bottle in the cup holder automatically before she buckles her seatbelt.
“Drive around in this car a lot, do you?” I ask her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she says.
“You seem to know where everything is.”
Riona gives an irritated sniff.