Chapter 4
Midtown traffic is a nightmare Friday night as Brandon and I, along with what seems like half the city’s dating crowd, jockey to get somewhere for dinner. He parks his Volvo at a public garage, assuring me that we’re less than two blocks from the restaurant.
“I hope you don’t mind the walk.” He casts me an uncertain glance. “I should’ve called about valet service at the restaurant or dropped you off first. Your feet must be killing you in those shoes.”
“I’m fine.” I step carefully in my new heels, doing my best to keep up with him while avoiding the grates and cracks in the concrete along the way. “I thought we were going to that steakhouse on Fifty-first?”
“Slight change of plans.” He smiles, excitement lighting his eyes. “Another opportunity came up a couple of days ago. I think you’ll like it. The steakhouse is perfectly nice, but I wanted to surprise you with something different tonight.”
“All right.” I don’t tell him that I hate surprises. Or, rather, I had hated them, before I met Nick. He taught me to enjoy a lot of things I never dreamed I would. Including a few that would probably light mild-mannered Brandon’s hair on fire. “How much farther is it?”
“We’re almost there.” He points up ahead of us, where a well-dressed crowd spills out to the sidewalk in front of a warmly lit restaurant. The buzz of excitement around the place is palpable even before we near it.
“Looks like a popular place.”
He grins. “Tonight’s the Grand Opening. One of my colleagues in the history department scored reservations three months ago, but he and his wife have been out all week with that respiratory thing that’s going around. Lucky us, he gave the reservation to me.”
He holds his arm out, guiding me ahead of him as we step past the other people on our way to the doors. A pair of stylized, interlocking initials—a G and a C—gleam in hammered steel at the center of the polished glass.
My feet slow to a halt as I realize where we are. “This is Gavin Castille’s new restaurant.”
“Yes, it is.” Brandon beams at me, reaching for the door. “Don’t look so worried. I hear his food is outstanding, unlike some of the other celebrity chefs out there.”
It’s not the food that gives me pause. I know firsthand that the Australian chef creates culinary masterpieces. He also happens to be a close friend of Nick’s.
“Are you disappointed?” Brandon’s eager look turns confused, crestfallen. “Because if you’d rather go somewhere else—”
“No, of course not.” After all, there’s no reason I shouldn’t enjoy dinner at what’s clearly one of the hottest new places in the city. I’m not going to let thoughts of Nick dampen my evening with Brandon. Especially when he’s trying so hard to please me.
Some of my resolve fades as we enter the restaurant and I see Gavin personally greeting his Grand Opening patrons. Like the consummate host he is, the handsome Aussie with the easy smile and beachy blond mane of hair takes a moment to speak with each person as they arrive and report in at the host stand. There are two couples ahead of Brandon and me, but I don’t miss the brief flick of Gavin’s eyes in my direction.
He doesn’t seem surprised to see me without Nick, although I’m sure by now he’s well aware that his friend and I are no longer seeing each other. I cringe to think Gavin might also be aware of the reasons why. Had Nick confided in him about how he’d used me? God, had Gavin known all along what he’d done—even that night when he’d shown up and prepared a private gourmet dinner for us at Nick’s request?
My cheeks warm to recall it, particularly the dessert of strawberries and cream and chocolate sauce, all of which Nick served to me later that evening while I was blindfolded and undressed, my hands tied at my back with a long string of pearls.
When it’s our turn to meet Gavin, he gives me no reason to feel uncomfortable. In fact, he introduces himself as though it’s the first time he’s ever seen me. For my benefit or my date’s? I can’t be sure, but I’m grateful nonetheless.
He shakes Brandon’s hand, then clasps mine in a brief, warm grasp. “Good evening. Welcome to GC.”
“Thank you.” I hold his pale green gaze without saying anything more, and he shrewdly picks up on my awkwardness. I wonder if he shares it, because he spends only a moment with us before motioning one of the hostesses over to him.
“Shelly, please seat this young lady and the gentleman in the library room.”
Brandon holds up his hand in question. “Actually, I believe the reservation I have is for the gallery room.”
“You just got an upgrade, mate.” Gavin’s wink and broad, dimpled smile are pure charm. “I promise, you’ll love your table in the library even more.”
Brandon chuckles. “Well, in that case, thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Gavin says, his glance lingering on mine for just a second longer as a party of four excitedly comes up to meet him. He nods to me. “Enjoy your evening, both of you.”
The hostess holds two large, leather-covered menus in her arms. “This way, please.”
We walk behind her as she leads us through the bustling restaurant. The layout is unique, especially for Manhattan. Rather than a sleek or fussy open-concept fishbowl, Gavin’s new restaurant is comprised of cozy dining rooms with exposed brick, rug-covered plank-wood floors, white stucco walls and heavy beamed ceilings.
It’s intimate and elegant, yet warmly inviting. But there’s no question that it’s also the place to be and be seen, especially tonight. The restaurant is filled with important looking people, couples on Friday night dates as well as larger groups. In one crowded dining room, tables surround a pianist playing light chamber music on a gleaming baby grand. Front and center, I notice the city’s mayor, Don Holbrook, holding court with his wife at a table for six. I’ve never met the mayor, but nearly a year ago I attended one of his fundraising galas.
With Nick, of course.
I groan inwardly at the memory. Is there anywhere I can go in this city without being reminded of him at every turn?
Brandon gently takes my hand as the hostess escorts us further into the restaurant. “What do you think? Do you like it so far?”
I nod. “It’s wonderful, and the food smells amazing.”
“Only the best for my girl,” he says, giving my fingers a little squeeze.
We are shown to one of half a dozen tables situated in a romantic room lined with floor-to-ceiling polished cherry bookcases. Hundreds upon hundreds of antique books fill the beautiful shelves. Their supple leather spines and gold-leaf lettering twinkle in the low light from the sconces on the walls and the enormous chandelier that hangs down from an ornate ceiling medallion in the center of the room.
“Wow.” I can’t hold back my pleasure as I drink in every detail.
Brandon seems equally impressed. He grins at the hostess as she seats us and presents us with our menus. “Please let the chef know that I definitely approve of the seating change.”
Her smile is placid. “He will be happy to hear it, I’m sure. Your server will be with you momentarily. Bon appétit.”
We aren’t left waiting long. Despite the full house, Gavin’s staff are prompt, polite, and effortlessly professional. Our waiter takes our drink order and another server brings fresh bread and seasoned oil. Others carry trays laden with cocktails, food, and sumptuous desserts, everyone moving in a symphony of polished grace and skill.
Brandon’s head swivels with each new culinary creation that passes by. “My word, did you see that rack of lamb? If the food is as good as it looks, we’re in for a real treat tonight.”
“Yes, we are,” I agree, taking a sip of my wine.
“You know, Castille’s got another place on the Upper East Side. Maybe we should go check that one out too.”
“Sure. I’d like that.” I nod as I break off a small piece of bread and dip it into the little plate of oil and herbs.
I’ve been to Gavin’s other restaurant before, although I doubt Brandon would care to hear about that any more than he’d want to know about any of my other experiences with Nick. God, what does it say about me that I can’t think of a single instance when I was able to resist that man? He had a way of turning every moment into something heated and dangerous, something too powerful to be denied.
Seeing him at the university gallery reception a few nights ago only drove that fact home with renewed clarity. As hard as I’ve tried to put our encounter out of my mind all week, there is a part of me that wonders what would have happened if I’d taken Nick up on his suggestion that we go somewhere to talk.
Not that I have to wonder.
Too many heated dreams in the nights since have filled in all of the blanks.
Brandon hails our waiter with a little wave of his hand. “Any chance I could get some butter for the bread?”
A perfunctory nod. “Of course, sir.”
“Thanks, appreciate it,” he says, then lowers his voice when we’re alone again. “You’d think a swanky place like this would know to bring butter to the table too.”
He’s not watching where his hand is, and as he reaches for the bread basket, the cuff of his sport coat catches on his long-stemmed wineglass. It tips before either of us can react, spilling merlot across the white table linens and onto my lap.
“Oh, no!” He pops out of his chair and starts to move toward me with his napkin in hand. “Avery, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I say, feeling more awkward about the stares we’re drawing than the accident itself. “Fortunately, my dress is a dark color. It’ll be fine.”
He frowns, vigorously shaking his head. “I’m such a clod. Let me help you—”
“No, it’s okay, really.” I stand up, the scent of wine clinging to me. “I, ah, I think I’ll go find the ladies’ room and clean up.”
He looks mortified, still fussing and apologizing as I extricate myself from our table to look for the restroom. The trek takes me deeper into the restaurant, the sounds of soft music and mingled conversations filtering out from all directions.
As I walk, I pass an intimate dining room sporting a carved limestone fireplace at one end and walls adorned with a variety of interesting art. Dozens of creative vignettes of framed paintings and striking photography. Cornice shelves showcasing unusual sculpture and rustic carvings that seem to be a celebration of art from all over the world.
The gallery room, obviously.
The art draws my gaze as I stroll by. If my thighs weren’t damp and the front of my dress reeking of spilled wine, I’d be tempted to slow down or even drift inside the room to take a closer look.
I’m not sure what pulls my attention away from the art and into one cozy corner of the room. But once I glance that way, I don’t see anything else.
It’s Nick. And he’s not alone.
The blonde woman seated across from him is beautiful, dazzling, in fact. She’s dressed in a low-backed dress and red-soled stilettos. Long, elegant fingers hold the stem of her wineglass as she leans forward, speaking animatedly to Nick, her adoring eyes riveted on him. He says something and she laughs, placing her hand over the top of his.
My breath seizes in my lungs.
No wonder Gavin made sure to seat Brandon and me in another room. He knew Nick was here too. With someone else. Someone whose regal appearance and easy grace exude old-money wealth and sophistication.
Someone who looks like she belongs in his world, much more than I ever could be, no matter how successful I’ve become in the time since we’ve been apart.
Is he using her too? Another acquisition to add to his long list of conquests? I’m sure I don’t want to know.
I glance away and keep walking, dreading the possibility that he might notice me too. Of course, he doesn’t. He’s too focused on the new woman across from him.
I can only be grateful for that small mercy. I’m sure as hell not ready to face him like this, with Brandon’s merlot all over me and Nick with a stunning date on his arm.
To my relief, a departing group of diners heads toward me from the opposite end of the walkway. I skirt the far edge of them, putting their party between me and Nick’s line of vision as I step quickly past the gallery dining room.
As soon as I’m through the swinging door of the ladies’ room, I sag against the wall and let go of the air that’s trapped in my lungs.
Breathe, Avery. Just breathe. God, it’s not easy to do.
He’s here. After a year of taking every step possible to avoid him, now, he’s just in the other room. Enjoying a romantic dinner with another woman.
I should be relieved. Hell, I should be overjoyed that he’s enjoying a romantic dinner with another woman after trying to play me again the other night at the reception. That pitiful part of me that has been tethered to what we had, waiting for Nick to either come around and beg me for forgiveness or confirm once and for all that nothing we shared was real has just been given its freedom.
So, why do the backs of my eyes sting with hot tears as I head over to the sink and begin to clean the spilled wine from my dress?
Why does my reflection look so miserable when I should be elated to finally have some closure?
Because, apparently, getting my heart broken by Dominic Baine has taught me nothing.
Am I really so weak? Or is his hold on me simply that strong, even after all this time, after all the lies and the anger and the pain?
The door swings open and an elderly woman enters, giving me a sympathetic glance as I dab at the front of my dress with a paper towel. I’ve done about all I can to get the wine out, but I linger in the restroom, knowing damn well I’m stalling.
The older woman joins me at the trio of sinks to wash her hands. “I’ve cried over a few ruined dresses in my day,” she says, smiling kindly at me in the mirror. “You should try some soda water on that, dear. Works like a charm.”
I nod and murmur my thanks, waiting until she’s left before I toss my dampened paper towels into the trash. Then, girding myself for the gauntlet that will take me past Nick and his date once more, I exit and head back to rejoin Brandon.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed to see that Nick and his companion are gone by the time I pass the gallery room. Their table is being bussed, already making room for other diners.
I assure myself I’m not the least bit curious where they’ve gone. Not the least bit stung to imagine him taking her back to his penthouse for a night of pleasures I can imagine all too easily.
“Everything okay?” Brandon reaches for my hand after I slip back into my seat at our table.
I nod, calling upon a smile that aches more than I care to acknowledge. “Yes. Everything’s just fine.”