Once Eugene is gone, a waiter appears and pours us each a glass of red wine. After that he’s gone, and Oz and I are alone.
“No menus?” I ask, looking around the table.
“A special favor called in. It’s a set menu.”
“I see,” I say, and he gives me a wink. “Vivien?” Reaching for my wine, I figure I’ll put that out there. I don’t want to come across as jealous, but it was brought up while I was sitting here.
Oz drapes an arm along the back of my chair as his fingers lazily stroke my exposed neck. There are definitely some advantages to wearing my hair up.
“My mother. Eugene and his wife, Louise, are my godparents.”
“What about your dad?” I take a sip of the wine. It’s warm and rich.
“I don’t care to talk about my father. The day my mother left him he died to me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry—” I try to apologize, but he holds his hand up to stop me. I can’t imagine what his father must have done to make him so angry, but I can tell by the tic in his jaw it isn’t something he cares to talk about.
“It’s fine—it’s not something I want to ruin the evening with. Another time.”
“How old are you?” I blurt out, thinking I should probably know this. It’s also a nice change of subject.
He laughs a little, letting go of my hand and taking a sip of his wine. “I’m twenty-six, but my birthday is next month. So almost twenty-seven.”
I nod, thinking that’s not too bad.
“Are you going to tell me your real name?”
“It’s Miles.” He doesn’t look at me when he answers, and it’s like he’s avoiding it.
“What’s the rest of it?”
“Henry.”
“Miles Henry. It sounds so posh. I think I like Oz better.”
He looks at me and gives me a wicked smile. I take another sip of my wine and look at him over the top of my glass.
“I think I like it better, too.”
His fingers caress the back of my neck, and the soft touch relaxes me. Maybe it’s the wine, too, but it’s nice to sit next to him, surrounded by his scent. The warm amber and honey clings to my dress. The scent is now becoming ingrained in my mind.
“What is it you do for fun, Oz? Are you always renting out whole buildings to entertain yourself? Sounds expensive.” I pick up my wine and take another sip, noticing that he pays attention to my every move.
He lets out a little laugh. “I’m afraid not. I keep to myself for the most part. I wasn’t lying when I said all I do is work. The closest thing to a friend I have is my head of security.”
“I really only have Paige. I seem to get lost in my work, too,” I admit. Seeing something else we both have in common.
“Not anymore. Now you have me, too.” He sounds so sure that he’ll always be around. That whatever this crazy thing is will last forever. The waiter appears again and this time brings us one small plate of antipasti. After he walks away, I look down at it. I guess we’re going to share.
There are olives and cheeses with a few dried meats and some tomatoes. Oz reaches out, picks up an olive and holds it out for me. I open my mouth slightly, and he places the salty olive on my lips. I bite it, loving the taste. He eats the other half while his eyes stay on my mouth, and the act is so erotic. Something about his feeding me is turning me on, and excitement rushes through my body.
He continues to feed me little bites of everything, always offering it to me first. When the plate is empty, I’m a little sad it’s over as the waiter comes and takes it away. But as fast as the empty plate is gone, a new one appears with a single plate of tortellini in a red sauce.
Reaching over, Oz takes his fork and scoops one up, offering it to me. It makes me smile, and I open up and take a bite. The combination of the spicy flavor of sausage and the sweetness of tomato is perfect, and I moan at the taste. Oz’s eyes narrow on me, and for a second he looks like he wants to come at me. I take another sip of wine, and after a moment he takes a bite of the pasta, too.
“Are you close with your mother?” I ask between bites. I normally don’t like to talk about family because it can be a little awkward for me but I want to share these things with him. To know what makes Oz, Oz.
“I am, yes. We have lunch together every Wednesday. Would you like to come with me tomorrow? I think you’d like her.”
My eyes must show some kind of alarm because he smiles gently at me.
“Or not. Another time perhaps,” he says, feeding me another bite.
All of this is happening so fast, but meeting the mother might be a bit too hasty. Even if a little part of me wants to jump at it.