This got me another eyebrow raise. Taking a deep breath for the first time in minutes, I wondered what the hostess was thinking.
“Great. For Fashion Week. I look fashionable, right?”
Standing mere inches from him, I took in his pale blue shirt tucked into suit pants, his sleeves casually rolled up, as well as his designer belt and Ferragamo loafers.
Mick wasn’t the epitome of gender-neutral fashion like the story I was covering, but he was delectable and tasteful. But I didn’t say either of those things.
Instead, I said, “You’ll do.”
This time, I got a laugh before he flagged the hostess. “Two, in the back,” he said authoritatively.
“Of course.” She grabbed two menus and an iPad, then walked us toward the back.
I’d always loved this restaurant. It wasn’t anything fancy, a neighborhood watering hole kind of place. A gastropub, they called themselves. Tommy—God, I had to stop thinking about him—thought it was too trendy for him. He preferred old-school Italian or a steakhouse.
“Is this okay?” The hostess directed her question to Mick.
He nodded, signaling for me to sit on the bench along the exposed brick wall. I slid in, watching him take a seat across from me, and wondered for the eighty-ninth time today what I was doing.
Mick Grantham was beyond handsome with dark hair and even darker eyes, a smattering of hair up his muscular forearms. An alpha in gentleman’s clothing, or maybe I was a lamb with rose-colored glasses. After all, my decision-making hadn’t put me in the best place thus far.
“I assume you’ve been here?” Mick asked once he was seated.
“I have,” I mumbled.
“It’s been a favorite of mine since I came to Boston. Gotta admit, any excuse to get over here, I do.”
Not sure what to say, I nodded again.
“I moved here about twenty years ago for my first job out of grad school. Consulting, of course. That’s what we all did,” he said. “Tired of it pretty quickly, then struck out on my own.”
“Where did you do grad school?” I asked. I couldn’t believe how easy all of this was feeling, other than the giant elephant sitting in the middle of the table and how heavy my wedding band felt on my finger.
“Wharton,” he said like it was nothing.
“Oh.”
“Okay, let’s do this,” Mick said when the server appeared.
“Hi, I’m Zeus. Welcome to the Paula.”
“I take it your parents were into mythology?” Mick asked the server, making me smile.
“Greek mythology professors. Believe me, when I was little, I wanted to be Max or Sam, but now it’s a real conversation starter, so I don’t mind.”
“I hear you. My name’s McKenzie. My mom thought they were being creative using a last name as a first name. It was too much of a conversation starter in middle school, so I shortened it to Mick.”
I smiled during their exchange, pretending like I knew my lunch date’s real name was McKenzie when I knew nothing more than he went to Wharton and bought broken companies like the hero in Pretty Woman. At least, that’s what he claimed to do.
Zeus chuckled, then asked if we wanted any drinks or appetizers while we looked at the menus.
“Drink?” Mick asked me as if day drinking were a regular thing for me or us.
“Uh, Pellegrino?” I said, and Zeus nodded.
“Something stronger when we eat?” Mick asked me.
“Perhaps.”
“Pellegrino for the lady, and a Scotch neat for me.”
When Zeus hurried off, Mick focused back on me.
“Now, back to what I was saying. Why don’t we get the hard talk out of the way, and then go back to the small talk where you tell me where you went to school or grew up. But first, tell me what really happened to your wrist, and why sparks flew when we first sat down next to each other yesterday.”
Surprised, I blinked at him. “You’re asking a lot.”
Mick ran his thumb across his chin, and I bit my lower lip.
“Margo, the tension is running thick between us. I had to call you today, and I’m hoping it wasn’t dumb luck you wanted to see me too.”
A knot of conflicted feelings and emotions settled in my belly, and I glanced around for Zeus, wanting my sparkling water to help settle it. He was nowhere to be seen, so I turned back to Mick, forced to acknowledge his question.
“Honestly, it was a bit of dumb luck. He’s . . . I mean, my husband’s out of town for the evening and my daughter is sleeping at a friend’s house, which is an unusual opportunity for me to be all alone.”
Mick’s impossibly dark eyes darkened even further. “Your husband’s the one responsible for the wrist.”
“Cut right to the chase, don’t you?” This time I raised an eyebrow. Annoyed, I shoved my hair behind my neck, my curls frizzing more by the minute.
“I don’t think it was your daughter—”
“Priscilla? No, never. She’s a doll,” I said quickly as Zeus returned with our drinks. When he sat my Pellegrino before me in a glass, I gulped a big sip and wondered why I didn’t go for some liquid courage. Noticing Mick waiting patiently, I simply said, “My husband isn’t a kind man.”
Mick placed his tumbler back on the table and leaned forward. “No, he’s not. Look, you tell me as much or as little as you want for now. We can’t deny there was something there when we met, and I know better than anyone that you need to get out of the mess you’re in . . . the sooner the better.”
“You’re certainly a wise one?” I ended my statement with my voice tilted up, making it more like a question, but he wasn’t wrong. The problem was, I didn’t know how to extricate myself from my husband. It was an impossible situation.
Mick took a sip of his Scotch, closing his eyes for a second before meeting my gaze again. “My mom, she had a tough life. Tiny apartment in Brooklyn, worked all day to support my freeloading father. Instead of rubbing her feet when she came home from working retail, he broke bones or gave her bruises.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I took care of him in the end. As soon as my testosterone kicked in, I met him outside the apartment as he was coming home one day. I had a friend’s dad who was a cop waiting on the corner. Told him if he didn’t leave and promise to never come back, I was bringing the policeman home for dinner and to speak with Mom. The day before my dad had given her a pretty bad shiner, and she’d spent half the morning putting makeup over it. There was no way a cop wouldn’t recognize it for what it was.”
“That’s awful . . . terrible. I’m glad your mom had you to stick up for her.”
“That’s my sob story. Haven’t been able to stomach a weak man ever since.”
A stinging formed behind my eyes, and I had to . . . needed to . . . change the subject. After taking another sip of my water, I said, “I’m actually from Marlboro, New Jersey. Went to Temple for school. I’d always hoped to work for the Times, but it never happened.”
“You’ve got time to do whatever you want, Margo,” Mick said firmly, his dark eyes sparking a glimmer of hope in me that I hadn’t known in years.
Picking up my menu, I decided to choose something to eat rather than fill myself on false promises.