When we arrive at the restaurant, I’m taken aback by the sheer trendiness of it. The place is modern and sleek, and so dim that I can barely see anyone but Davis as I wait for my vision to adjust.
The host leads us to a table in the corner, set by two spanning windows that give us an unparalleled view of the city. If we were two normal, well-adjusted people on a normal, non-transactional date, this would be a memorable evening. As it stands, however, that’s not the case for us.
Davis pulls out my chair for me and situates it before he takes his own seat. The host offers him a wine list and a cocktail menu and then departs, leaving Davis and me alone.
I feel underdressed in my Target outfit, which—now that I think about it—may actually be from Forever 21, which is truly the most embarrassing thought in the universe. When I look to the side, I see throngs of other tables, all with a clear view of us. We’re clearly in a see-and-be-seen spot—and I’m wearing fast fashion from the late 2010s.
“Davis,” I comment, drawing his attention away from the menu.
“Yeah?”
“This table. You’re not worried that it’s too…” I move my head from side to side, hoping that will be enough to get my point across.
On the contrary, his face pulls into a frown. “What?” he asks, clearly confused.
“You know,” I continue, even though it’s obvious that he doesn’t know. “You don’t think that it’s too…public?”
“Public,” Davis repeats, lifting both of his eyebrows.
“Yes. You’re not concerned that too many people are going to see us?”
“I wasn’t, but you obviously are.” He puts down the wine list and leaves his hand resting on the back of it, looking authoritative with that simple gesture. “So, you want me to take you home? Is that it?”
“No,” I swear as I reach out to put my hand on his. This would be so much easier if I could admit that I’m embarrassed for being so naïve as to wear this dress to dinner, but I can’t scrounge up the gumption. In a pinch, I do the thing I’m not supposed to: I lie to him. “I’m worried that someone is going to see us and recognize us.”
Davis’s scoff rings between us. “Recognize us? As in, another intern? Because I promise you, no intern can afford to eat here. Hell, I don’t think an intern could even get a table here.”
“But plenty of people who run in your circle and your father’s circle could—”
“Look, if you’re embarrassed to be seen with me, say it,” he interjects, his tone undeniably sharp. “Don’t mince words, Olivia. Honesty clause.”
The idea of me ever being embarrassed to be seen with Davis is laughable, and I want to tell him exactly that, but a waiter arrives at that precise moment. Davis puts in an order for a bottle of wine and a new table. Within minutes, we have a private, isolated spot in the back of the restaurant.
I’m gingerly scooping the last spoonful of hazelnut gelato off of my dessert plate, acutely aware that Davis is watching me. I’m not fazed. He’s been watching me for the last hour, throughout the entirety of this awkward dinner, his expression fluctuating between neutrality and acrimony.
“This was amazing,” I tell him. “The best dinner I’ve ever had. I do mean that.”
Davis lets out a sigh, unmoved by my gratitude. His own dessert is half-eaten in front of him. “So, should we get the hell out of here?”
“We can stay for longer,” I urge, gesturing at his plate. “You should finish that. We can drink our wine and just talk.”
He looks down at his plate before he raises a shoulder and begins to eat the last few bites of it. It’s almost as though he has given himself permission, and that makes me want to reach over and give his hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Okay, done,” he declares a minute or two later when the plate is clean. “I’ll get the check.”
“Why don’t you like talking to me anymore?” I finally ask, cutting into the end of his sentence.
Davis hesitates before settling back against his chair. Slowly, he folds his arms, which makes his chest muscles flex against his dress shirt—in case anyone here had forgotten that he’s cut like a diamond. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“It’s like you hate talking to me. It’s like you’d rather do anything else.”
“I just figured you’d want to get out of here,” he replies as he picks up his glass of wine, swirls it, and finishes it with a gulp.
Asshole.
“Excuse me?” Davis questions, his eyes narrowed into daggers.
It takes me a beat to realize that I’ve said it aloud—that I just called Davis an asshole to his face. It’s bad enough to call someone an asshole just for chugging a glass of wine that he paid for, but the fact that this person’s father is the Chairman of the Board for the company where I work is the real kicker. I’m an idiot to end all idiots—and somewhere out there, in some afterlife, famous idiots like Caligula and Louis XVI are probably watching me and sipping their tea and saying, Girl, get it together.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize at once, lowering my hands under the table to tug at my cloth napkin. “It just slipped out. I didn’t mean it—”
“Honesty clause,” he interjects lowly, not removing his attention from my surely reddening face. His expression twists upwards, making him look like he’s teetering on the brink of anger. “You think I’m an asshole.”
“No. No, I don’t.”