I think fast. “Treat myself to dinner at Michael’s.”
Michael’s is a small, upscale casino on the Nevada side of the lake where wealthy tourists go to gamble and blow their money. The steakhouse sits above the casino floor so you can look down on everyone playing craps and blackjack while you stuff your face with overpriced filet mignon. I can’t really afford it on my salary, but the minute it’s out of my mouth, I’m looking forward to it.
If watching me eat makes Sloane feel better, for me it’s watching other people make bad decisions.
She says, “Alone? The only people who eat alone are psychopaths.”
“Thanks for that. Any other little gems of encouragement you’d like to share?”
She purses her lips in disapproval but stays silent, so I know I’m off the hook.
Now I just have to figure out what to wear.
When I walk into Michael’s at six o’clock, I’ve already got a pleasant buzz going.
I took a cab over so I wouldn’t have to drive, because my plan for this evening is to order the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu—screw it, I’ll put it on a credit card—and get properly shit-faced.
Without the wedding dress in the house, I feel lighter. Like I’ve let go of something heavy I’ve been holding on to for too long. I dug around in the back of my closet and pulled out another dress I never wear, but one that doesn’t have so much baggage attached to it. It’s a red silk body-skimming sheath that manages to flatter my figure without looking like it’s trying too hard.
I’ve paired it with strappy gold heels, an armful of slim gold bangles, and a sloppy updo for what I hope is a sort of boho-chic look. A swipe of Sweet Poison on my lips completes the look.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll hit it off with someone I meet at the bar.
I laugh at that thought because it’s so ridiculous.
The maître d’ seats me at a nice table in a corner of the room. There’s an enormous fish tank behind me and the casino floor below me on the right. I’ve got a clear view of the rest of the restaurant, too, which is mostly populated with older couples and a few young people who look like they’re on first dates.
I order champagne and settle into my chair, satisfied that this was a good idea. I can’t be as morose in public as I’d be at home, sharing mac and cheese with Mojo and weeping over my old engagement photos.
I’m satisfied for all of two minutes before I see him, sitting across the restaurant alone at a table, smoking a cigar and nursing a glass of whiskey.
I mutter, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
As if he heard me speak, Kage looks up and catches my eye.
Whoa. That was my stomach dropping.
I send him a tight smile and look away, squirming. I wish I knew why making eye contact with the man feels so visceral. It’s like every time I meet his gaze, he’s reaching into my stomach to squeeze my guts in his big fist.
I neglected to tell Sloane about his comment. The “you are beautiful” one that I’ve been trying not to think about all day. The one accompanied by a gruff tone of voice and that look in his eye that I’m quickly becoming familiar with. That strange mix of intensity and hostility, warmed with what I’d think was curiosity if I didn’t know better.
I busy myself with staring down at the casino floor until the maître d’ returns, smiling.
“Miss, the gentleman at the table against the wall requests that you join him for dinner.”
He gestures to where Kage sits watching me like a hunter peering at a doe through the sights of a rifle.
My heart thumping, I hesitate, unsure what to do. It would be rude to refuse, but I hardly know the man. What I do know of him is confusing, to say the least.
And tonight. Why did I have to run into him again tonight?
The maître d’ smiles wider. “Yes, he said you’d be reluctant, but he promises to be on his best behavior.”
His best behavior? What would that look like?
Before I can imagine, the maître d’ is helping me out of my chair and leading me by the elbow across the restaurant. Apparently, I don’t have a choice in the matter.
We arrive at Kage’s tableside. I’m surprised to find him standing. He doesn’t seem like someone who’d bother with such formalities.
The maître d’ pulls out the chair opposite his, bows, and retreats, leaving me standing there awkwardly as Kage stares at me with burning eyes.
“Please, sit.”
It’s the “please” that finally does it. I sink into the chair, swallowing because my mouth is suddenly so dry.
He sits also. After a moment, he says, “That dress.”
I glance up at him, bracing myself for another insult about my fussy wedding gown, but he’s gazing with lowered lids at the dress I’m currently wearing. He probably thinks this one is hideous, too.
Self-conscious, I fiddle with one of the spaghetti straps. “It’s old. Simple.”
His dark eyes flash up to meet mine. He says hotly, “Simple is better on you. Perfection doesn’t need any embellishment.”
It’s a good thing I’m not holding a glass, because I’d drop it.
Stunned, I stare at him. He stares right back, looking like he’d like to punch himself in the face.
It’s obvious he doesn’t like it when he gives me compliments. Also obvious is that he never intends to, they just come out.
Less obvious is why he gets so angry with himself when it happens.
My cheeks burning, I say, “Thank you. That’s…probably the nicest compliment I’ve ever been given.”
He grinds his molars for a while, then takes a long swig of his whiskey. He sets the glass back down on the tabletop with such force, I jump.
He’s regretting the invitation. Time to let him off the hook.
“It was very nice of you to invite me over, but I can see you’d rather be alone. So thank you for—”
“Stay.”
It comes out as a barked command. When I blink, startled, he softens it with a murmured, “Please.”
“Okay, but only if you take your meds.”
He murmurs to himself, “She’s funny, too. How inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient for who?”
He simply gazes at me without answering.
What is it with this guy?
The maître d’ returns holding the bottle of champagne I ordered, along with two flutes.
Thank god. I was just about to start gnawing on my arm. I can’t remember the last time I was this uncomfortable.
Oh, wait. Sure I can. It was last night, when Prince Charmless so elegantly rejected my request for a ride home. Or was it this morning, when he saw me in my wedding dress and looked as if he was about to throw up?
I’m sure if I give it five more minutes, I’ll have another example to choose from.
Kage and I are silent as the maître d’ uncorks the bottle and pours. He informs us our waiter will be over soon, then disappears as I’m shooting my champagne like I’m in a competition for an all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii.
When I set my empty glass down, Kage says, “You always drink so much?”
Ah, yes. He saw me boozing it up last night, too. Right before I wobbled over to his table. No wonder he looks at me with such…whatever it is.