"Are you hungry?" Mr. Drake glanced over at me and grinned. When I didn't respond, he added, "You can talk now, you know."
I smiled into the darkness. "A bit. I haven't eaten since breakfast."
"I'm starving, too. Hang on. I know a place."
Before I could protest, he was exiting, moving toward downtown, away from my apartment. I realized that I never told him where I lived. Where had he been taking me?
We pulled up to a restaurant whose name I couldn't pronounce, and he opened the car door for me once again before tossing his keys to the valet. Yep. There was a freaking valet at this place. I looked down at my work clothes and chewed my lip. Mr. Drake was already at the door, holding it for me, looking at me with a raised eyebrow.
The maitre de smiled and shook Mr. Drake's hand before ushering him to "his table." It was my turn to raise an eyebrow as I looked around the place. The lights were low and candles flickered on every table. The walls were covered in gorgeous polished wood with art work hanging in lighted niches. I'd never been to a restaurant like this, and suddenly, I was glad for the dim lighting. I stuck out like a sore thumb.
I ran my hands through my hair, trying to smooth it out now that it was down, before Mr. Drake caught my hand. His eyes seemed to be looking through me before he pulled my chair out and gestured for me to sit. He sat down before letting me go, his hand lingering on mine.
"Are you uncomfortable here?"
His question caught me off guard. Was I that obvious?
"A little," I said. "I'm not dressed for it." I glanced down at the menu, and swallowed hard. "And I don't think I can afford it," I ended, my voice just above a whisper.
Mr. Drake laughed, and I stared at him in surprise.
"No one cares what you're wearing, Isabeau. You're with me." He leaned in, the angles of his face accentuated by the candlelight. "And when you're with me, it's my treat. I thought that much was obvious."
Relief flooded me, and I sat back with a long exhale. "Thank you, Sir."
There was a strange light in his eyes at the word 'Sir,' but as soon as I saw it, it was gone, and he was leaning comfortably back, looking at the menu. Had I imagined it?
"My pleasure. Now, tell me, Isabeau. Have you ever had foie gras?"
At first I'd worried we'd have nothing to talk about, but as dinner wore on, Mr. Drake seemed to delight in introducing me new foods and wines, watching my face intently as I tried them all, and smiling like a kid on Christmas morning when he found something I enjoyed. The bone marrow foam turned out to be delicious instead of disgusting (as I'd feared), and the riesling paired with the crème brulee was the best thing I'd had in years.
He asked about my family, and I told him about my sister and brother back in Oregon, and how I'd been living with my Grandma Rose, taking care of her until she passed away this year.
///
"That explains why a woman like you was temping. You put your career on hold for her, didn't you?"
I frowned back at him. "What do you mean? 'A woman like me'?"
Is he insulting me? After all this?
"You're a beautiful woman in her mid 20s, Isabeau. College educated, smart, capable. You should have a career. You should be excelling in a career. You're not a temp."
I looked down at my hands, twisting my napkin in my lap.
"Sometimes life has other plans, I guess. I hope I didn't disappoint."
My words sounded bitter, but I meant it that way. Who the hell did Mr. Drake think he was? There was nothing wrong with being a temp. I made enough money to have my own, admittedly tiny, place. I paid my bills. I lived my life. Wasn't that enough?
A life like mine will never be enough for some people.
His hand covered mine on the tablecloth, and I looked up into those green eyes of his.
"I think you misunderstand me. I meant that you can be anything you want to be, and the fact that you sacrificed like that for family is … noble. Your Grandmother was a very lucky woman to have you looking after her. I don't think anyone in my family would ever be that selfless."
I sat in stunned silence, feeling the comforting weight of his hand on mine, realizing I'd misjudged him, even after the kindness he'd shown me tonight.
"Thank you."
Tears had sprung up behind my eyes, and it took all my effort to push them back down. The last thing I needed was for this powerful man to see me cry over dessert. I was just tired, was all. Tired of sacrifice. Tired of second guessing all of my choice. Of trying to be my best every hour of every day.
"Let's get out of here."
On the drive home, wine warming me from within combined with the soft murmer of the radio made my eyes heavy. I'd only had a couple of glasses, but I'd sampled several others the sommelier brought over, and had a nice buzz going. Not drunk, but lubricated and comfortable.