Fortune's Perfect Match Page 8

  He laughed outright, earning himself another disapproving look from Georges, who was returning with their water. The waiter set the stemmed glasses in front of them and made a production of pouring the water from a tall, skinny carafe that he left on the table before launching into his accented spiel about their dinner choices.

  Max stopped listening after the third choice, which thankfully was the duck that Brandi had mentioned. The other choices were too complicated to even understand.

  Emily didn’t seem to have any such difficulty, though, and asked a few questions, in French, before making her choice, which seemed to earn Georges’s approval before he turned to Max.

  “The duck,” he said.

  Georges waited, eyebrows raised. “It’s a prix fixe menu, monsieur. You choose three.”

  Max wanted to swear. Definitely should have done his research. Maybe then he wouldn’t be sitting there while Georges snickered behind his disdainful half smile. “I’ll have what the lady is having.”

  “Not…the duck, then.” Georges’s gaze met Max’s. He clearly knew that Max was over his head. Max stared back and after a moment, Georges gave that head nod of his again. “Très bien,” he said, and backed away.

  As soon as the waiter was gone, Emily leaned forward, her lips pursed in a silent whistle. “He’s something, isn’t he?”

  Max could come up with a few “somethings,” but suspected if he uttered the words, the maître d’ would call in the cops to have him removed. “Sure you don’t want some wine?” At this point, he definitely did. But wanting and having were two different things.

  “Absolutely.” She shifted and her knee brushed his again. “Did you get any flying in this week?”

  He nodded. “A few hours. I’m scheduled to take the exam for my instrument rating next week.”

  Her smile widened. She immediately picked up her water glass in a toast. “Congratulations!”

  He softly clinked his glass against hers. “Thanks. Though congratulations should probably wait until after the test. I might not pass.”

  “You will.”

  “Is it a side effect of your job to put a positive spin on everything?”

  “Success begins with believing you’ll have success.” She laughed softly. “That’s one of my father’s favorite sayings. I guess it’s rubbed off over the years. But, I can’t imagine you not succeeding at something you clearly love.”

  He could. Easily. For a few short weeks, he’d let himself believe he could be a father. Until reality intruded, proving otherwise.

  “What about your week?” Better to get the topic off of him, and back on to her. “Everything go okay in Atlanta?”

  Her smile turned to a faint grimace. She set down her glass. “As well as could be expected.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She shook her head, her lashes shielding her gaze. “Nothing interesting, I assure you.”

  “Everything’s interesting when it comes to you,” he said bluntly. Truthfully.

  Her lashes lifted. She looked surprised. “Well, I had about a hundred meetings—mostly boring—and then—”

  “Your Foie Gras Brulee,” Georges interrupted, setting two small white plates in front of them with a flourish, along with a dinky basket of triangle toast points.

  Max eyed the crusty top of the rounded mound of the pale brown substance in front of him. He didn’t know what it was, didn’t figure he wanted to know. But he followed Emily’s lead, taking one of the small pieces of toast and smearing some of the mound on it. He gingerly bit off a corner. “Tastes like duck-flavored butter,” he said after he’d swallowed.

  Emily looked amused. “Don’t let Georges hear you. It’s most certainly goose, in this place.”

  “Fine. Tastes like goose butter.” He polished off the toast point, and reached for another triangle from the basket. But that one, he ate dry.

  Emily was smiling outright now. “Not your taste?”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  She laughed softly. “So have I.” Then she leaned forward and her knee bumped against his again before quickly moving away. “And while this is nicely done, I’ve also had better.” She grinned, a small dimple in her right cheek appearing. “But we won’t tell Georges that. Might give him heart palpitations.”

  “Wouldn’t want that.” He watched her nibble her way through her own toast points for a moment. Considering everything, she was being a pretty good sport and he felt himself actually begin to relax again. “You wanna give me a heads-up on what else we’ve got coming?”

  “An artichoke soup is next and Cassoulet after that. Cassoulet is pretty much classic French comfort food.”

  If this restaurant was to be believed, the French made mounds of butter-smooth fat that tasted like duck. What on earth would they consider comfort food? “I’m afraid to ask what that might be.”

  She nudged aside the appetizer plate and touched the corners of her lips daintily with her big, linen napkin. “Good old bean and meat casserole,” she drawled. “Meat varies. Pork. Chicken. Could be nearly anything. Even duck.”

  “The other parts of that goose?”

  She sat forward a little. “Don’t know. Possibly. Shall we call out Georges and ask him?”

  Max shook his head. “Pass.”

  She chuckled.

  He had to shift less than two inches and his knee found hers. He let it stay there.

  So did she.

  He decided that choking down some unusual dishes wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d ever done. Not as long as he had Emily there for company.

  Before long, Georges returned, replacing their plates with shallow bowls of a creamy, pale soup.

  That, at least, came close to living up to Emily’s brother-in-law’s assessment. It was delicious, and Max finished every drop.

  But that, too, seemed to be gauche, if Georges’s faint sneer as he collected Max’s empty bowl and Emily’s half-empty bowl was any estimation.

  While they’d been there, the other tables had slowly become occupied. Women wearing diamonds and black dresses—most considerably skimpier than Emily’s dress—and men wearing suits and ties.

  Emily, who was lovelier than any of the women, fit in among them like a glove.

  Max, though, in his black jeans and gray sports coat and loaner red tie, felt as though he stuck out like a sore thumb.

  The only comfort—and distraction—was that Emily still hadn’t moved her leg and the spot where their knees touched just kept getting warmer. And warmer.

  “Compliments of Chef Etienne.” The maître d’ seemed to appear out of nowhere. He was cradling a bottle of wine as if it were the greatest gift. “Had we realized earlier we were being treated to your company, Ms. Fortune, he would have delighted in presenting you with a special menu, as well.”

  Max stared. Emily looked equally surprised. But she recovered a lot faster. “That’s very kind of Chef Etienne,” she replied. “But truly not necessary. I don’t even—”

  “For Chef, it’s very necessary,” the maître d’ insisted, busily uncorking the bottle, and handing the cork to Max. He gestured to a young man nearby, who quickly set two wineglasses on the table.

  “Thank you,” Emily said again. “Please tell the chef thank you for us.” She touched the bottle that the maître d’ was preparing to pour over Max’s glass. “However, we’ll pour if you don’t mind?”

  The maître d’ looked pained. But he set the bottle on the table. “Certainement.” Then he walked stiffly away.

  Max heard Emily sigh. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know how they even know who I am.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” he assured. He lifted the bottle to pour some into her glass, but she stretched her hand out at the same time and he missed her glass altogether. He muttered an oath, righting the bottle quickly, but still managing to send a good amount of the rich, dark wine right over her hand and the blindingly white tablecloth.

  She quickly swiped her napkin over her
hand and dropped it over the mess, but not quickly enough to keep the wine from dripping off the table onto her lap.

  Max’s nerves tightened all over again. Dark wine. Ivory dress. This was worse than the damned loaner tie.

  He should have stuck to Red. It was about as fancy as he could manage without making an ass out of himself.

  Better yet, he should have realized it was pointless trying to impress Emily.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, slapping his own napkin over the spreading wine.

  “It’s not your fault,” she assured quickly. But as she started to stand, he saw just how much wine had hit her dress.

  He knew enough about women to know there was no way to redeem the evening.

  Georges had returned, too, giving Max a sidelong glare as he swiftly removed the tablecloth. The same kid who’d brought the wineglasses was there, too, with replacement linens.

  “I’ll take you home,” Max said to Emily. He slid his wallet out of his pocket, pulled out his credit card and handed it to Georges, hoping like hell the man would have some sense and keep his mouth shut. He could feel nearly every eye in the place on them. Georges palmed the card and scurried away.

  “That’s not necessary,” Emily protested. She felt the promise of the evening spinning further out of her grasp, but sat down again anyway, unfolding her fresh napkin over her lap. “Max, it’s fine.” She was well aware that he didn’t feel comfortable at the restaurant, and would have done nearly anything to make him feel more at ease.

  He remained standing, though. “It’s not fine.” He turned toward Georges when the waiter reappeared and scribbled his name inside the small leather folder.

  Emily could only imagine the amount of the check and even though she could have easily offered to pay, she wouldn’t have dreamed of treading on Max’s toes that way.

  Then Georges turned toward her, giving her the generous smile that he’d stingily withheld from Max all evening. “Mademoiselle Fortune,” he gushed. “Perhaps you would consider being Chef’s guest another night? It would be our pleasure to see you again.”

  Her. Not Max.

  She smiled back at him as she stood. Not caring in the least about the wine splattered over her lap, she stepped around to Max’s side and deliberately began loosening the knot of his tie, boldly ignoring the start he gave. “If Mr. Allen considers returning, then perhaps I will,” she told Georges.

  Then she smiled up into Max’s face as she slowly slid the tie out from beneath his collar. She even flicked open the top two buttons of his white shirt to reveal the strong, bronzed column of his throat.

  Aware that they had more of an audience than the irritating Georges, she squashed the intriguing interest in undoing several more buttons and instead draped the tie carelessly over the back of his chair. “Now,” she said to Max, “why don’t we go somewhere we’ll actually enjoy?”

  Chapter Six

  “I wasn’t joking in there,” Emily said once they were outside the restaurant.

  Max looked at her. His expression was grim. “I appreciate the cheerleading act in there, but you don’t have to keep it up.” He yanked his blazer off his shoulders and closed his fist around it. “I’ll pay to have your dress cleaned. And if it doesn’t come clean, I’ll pay to replace it.”

  She managed not to sigh. The dress was one-of-a-kind, designed by a friend of hers, which she had no intention of admitting. “Max, I don’t care about the dress.” She sent silent apologies to Lydia, but it was the absolute truth.

  “I do.” He headed along the sidewalk. It was illuminated by an occasional street lamp, but otherwise, the tree-lined walkway was dark.

  She took a few skipping steps to catch up to him. “Max, please slow down. I can’t keep up.”

  He immediately stopped. “Sorry.”

  She slowed, too, and stopped in front of him. “I was really looking forward to this evening.”

  “And I ruined it.”

  “No!” She pushed her fingers through her hair, only to remember too late that Wendy had helped pin it up. She shoved the loosened pins back into place. “That’s not what I am saying at all.”

  He gave her a disbelieving look. “You like going places to have wine dumped on you?”

  “Spilling that wine was just as much my fault as it was yours. I didn’t even want it!” She wouldn’t be drinking any sort of alcohol as long as the possibility remained that her appointment earlier that day was successful. “I still don’t know how the chef even realized I was your date. If anyone ruined the evening, it was me.”

  “I doubt you’ve ever ruined anything in your life, and tonight wasn’t the start.” He threw his head back, looking up at the canopy of trees over their heads.

  She wondered if he was trying to see the sky. Imagining himself far from earth, from her, in an airplane up there. “I don’t exist in a vacuum of perfection,” she told him. “I’m just like everyone else.” She dashed her hands over her stained dress. “Unexpected things happen all the time.” Meeting him, for one.

  He finally looked back at her. He didn’t look happy, but at least that terribly grim expression had eased. “I wanted to impress you.”

  Her knees went a little weak. “With a fancy French restaurant?”

  “I figured it was a little early in the game for diamonds.”

  Definitely weak. But she took it as a good sign that his tone had turned a little wry. “I’m actually happier with more casual things. Simple pleasures. You know. Like—” She broke off, feeling unusually tentative. She moistened her lips. “Like fiery food at places like Red. Sunday afternoon picnics. Friday nights spent in. Just tossing a few steaks on the grill.” She hadn’t actually done some of those things, but that didn’t mean they didn’t sound perfect to her.

  He still didn’t look convinced.

  “I put a lot more importance on who I’m spending time with, than where we’re doing it.”

  His eyebrow peaked ever so slightly and she felt her cheeks warm a little when she realized how her words could be misconstrued. “I mean where we’re spending time.”

  “Mmm.” The corners of his lips actually curved a little. “Not sure that sounds as interesting.”

  She pressed her lips together for a moment, confining her own smile. She wasn’t sure it sounded as interesting, either, but only because it was Max she was thinking about. She’d never met another man who had the ability to make her want to forget everything except him.

  “It’s still early,” she said. “We don’t have to call an end to things just because of those people in there.” She jerked her head over her shoulder in the direction of the restaurant.

  “Where am I going to take you with your dress dripping with wine?”

  It was hardly dripping. It was damp, yes. And the red wine would probably never come out of the ivory summer-weight wool. “What about your place?” Her heart thumped hard against the scooped bodice. Not once in her entire life had she so openly thrown herself at a man.

  She’d already noticed that he was an uncommonly still man. He didn’t fidget. Rarely appeared restless. But with her suggestion seeming to hang in the heated evening air, he seemed to grow even more still.

  “I live in an apartment.”

  She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “Alone?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  Yes. She did. He lived alone, and she knew it because he’d told her so, himself. “I’m staying with my sister.” Something he knew, equally well.

  He watched her for what seemed like an eternity. She could feel perspiration popping out on the back of her neck. The small of her back. Wasn’t certain if it was owed to the summer evening, or to him.

  “I have soda and a few steaks in the fridge.” He smiled slightly. “Maybe some ice cream in the freezer. It’s probably not particularly sinful or rich but it is chocolate.”

  Tension oozed out of her only to be replaced by an intoxicating liquid heat. “Works for me.” She sounded breathless
and didn’t care one little bit. She didn’t know what exactly she was inviting, didn’t know what he thought she was inviting, but that wasn’t something she cared about, either.

  She was with Max.

  And right then, that was all that mattered.

  * * *

  They made the drive back to Red Rock in silence. Max lived in an upstairs apartment, and Emily nearly swallowed her tongue when he pressed his hand against the small of her back, guiding her up the steps. At the top, he unlocked the door and reached inside to flip a light switch before nudging her inside and closing the door.

  “I’ll get you something to change into if you want to get out of that dress.”

  She didn’t trust herself to answer that so she just nodded and he headed out of the living area and disappeared down the hallway.

  Alone, she let her curiosity take hold. The apartment was pretty standard, with tan carpet and ivory walls. He had an L-shaped brown couch behind which stood the floor lamp that he’d turned on at the wall switch, an oversize beige recliner and an enormous flat-screen television filling up the space of the living room. On the other side of the doorway was a small dining area complete with a simple round table and four chairs, and a kitchen with a breakfast bar. Two bar stools were tucked beneath the bar.

  What really held her interest, though, was the brick fireplace in the corner opposite the couch and she aimed straight for it, dropping her purse on the couch along the way. Three framed photographs were on the plain black shelf that served as a mantel.

  The first was a family shot that looked to be several years old, with a young Max standing between his sister who was wearing a graduation cap and gown and an older woman. Judging by the resemblance, it was probably their mother. The second was much more recent of just Max and Kirsten—this time wearing a wedding gown. And the third was a close-up shot of a fat-cheeked baby.

  Her heart squeezed as she slowly picked up the small frame to take a closer look. Was this little Anthony? The baby he’d given up?