We sat on opposite sides of the table, in awkward silence again, while we scanned the menus and gave the waiter our orders. Chicken Masala for me, spaghetti with meatballs for Chad. The waiter appeared a few minutes later with a bottle of 1951 Penfolds Grange Hermitage. I raised my eyebrows at Chad.
“I know my wine,” he smiled.
“You’ve gotten very continental over the years,” I said with a smile.
“Well, actually, I Googled it,” he said with a grin. He held up his glass and tapped it lightly to mine. “To old times.”
“To old times,” I said. I sipped the wine and scanned the crowd around us. “This place is beautiful.”
“It is, isn’t it,” Chad said, following my gaze. “To be honest, I’m clueless when it comes to New York. Martin made the reservations.”
“Martin?”
“My manager, Martin Friese,” Chad replied. “More of friend, actually. Wouldn’t be here without him.”
I frowned at Chad’s show of humility, which I had never seen from him before. It was unlike Chad to give credit to someone else for his successes. It made me wonder what else had changed about him.
“Must be a great a guy,” I said, wanting to hear more, fishing for the catch.
“He is,” Chad said with a sincere smile. “He set up the whole entry into New York. I mean, sure, I know there’s a lot in it for him, but sometimes I get the feeling he’s more of a par
tner than a manager.”
“Worried you might have to share the spoils?”
Chad laughed, and his eyes pierced mine. I had a feeling he knew I was fishing, and instantly turned my eyes away, concentrating on the wine that tasted like heaven.
“So, Zoe Maxwell, tell me,” Chad said with a sigh. “What does the world of a bestselling author look like? Mansions? Cars? A place in the Hamptons?”
“I wish,” I snorted, a little too quickly. “People have the wrong idea about authors, bestsellers or not. We don’t all live like James Patterson or Stephen King. In fact, less than one-percent of authors actually make a living off their work.”
“You seem to be doing fine,” Chad said, smiling over his glass. That damn smile... It was melting me despite my best efforts to resist. The heat was building in my belly. I was getting moist. I could smell the faint scent of my own juices.
“I’m doing okay,” I said, trying not to blush.
He shrugged. “You are not living in a hovel, by any means, at least judging from the outside of the building.”
I smiled. Was he hinting that he wanted to see the inside of my apartment?
“Well, I don’t live like you do, I’m sure,” I smiled back, slowly getting comfortable. “I’m sure your place in L.A. would make my little apartment look like a broom closet.”
He rolled his eyes at me. “Your apartment must be pretty impressive. What floor are you on? Which way does the apartment face?”
“Why do you ask?” I was being demure. He seemed enamored by it. Maybe he had grown up after all. The juices flowed.
“Because of the view,” he said nonchalantly. “Bet you have one hell of a view from…”
“The twelfth floor,” I said, giggling. “I have a lovely view of the building next door.”
“Remember your old apartment back in the day?” he asked, shaking his head at the memory. “What a shit hole that was.”
“Yes, I live in a much nicer shit hole now,” I said with a grin.
Chad laughed, and I found myself laughing along with him. I swirled the wine in my glass, and looked towards the bar where a couple was cozying up over drinks. I felt good, strangely so, and started to fight back the paranoia that something was going to go terribly wrong with the night. I looked back at Chad to find him staring right at me.
I felt my cheeks heating up. In fact, all of me was heating up. The fire had started down below and was rising up, over my belly, across my breasts, up my neck… The way he was looking at me took me back to a time when I would have done anything to keep those eyes locked on me. It was funny how something as simple as a look could have that effect.
“I’ve missed you, Zoe,” Chad said.