A crisply uniformed concierge welcomes us with a friendly smile, palms together in a typical Thai greeting. I nod. “What are your dining options?”
She asks what we want, and I tell her anything is fine, but ideally something nice and expensive, emphasis on expensive. I pull Ava closer and put an arm around her shoulders. She feels thin…much too thin for my taste. Why the hell is she so frail?
“My date adores good food,” I say in a saccharine voice.
“Well.” The concierge shoots me a quick smile for indulging my significant other and recommends Favola on the second floor. Contemporary Italian made with Royal Project organic produce.
I give Ava a look. Does this sound sufficiently gourmet and high class?
She looks away again, which only makes me more determined.
One of the staff leads us to the restaurant. It isn’t that busy, so we’re seated immediately at a table past a glass wine cellar that occupies the center of the dining area. The host pulls out a cream-colored chair for Ava, and she sits down with forced good grace. A server comes over and gives us two menus on the table made with wood as dark as that used for the flooring.
“Would you like something to drink, sir?” he asks.
“Water. Plus…” I gesture at the racks of wine carelessly. “A Pinot Noir No. 3 if you have it.” Ava reaches for the menu, and I smile. “And we know what we want.”
Her chin snaps upward. “I haven’t ha—”
“The most expensive appetizer,” I say, pinning her with my eyes. “The most expensive entrée. And the most expensive dessert.”
“Certainly, sir.” The waiter confirms our order, shooting a quick glance in Ava’s direction, whose face is now bright red, and vanishes.
“That was uncalled for.” Her voice is barely audible, but the force of anger underneath is formidable.
I lean back expansively in my seat. “Sue me.”
Our server brings out a large bottle of water and fills our glasses. Then he runs back within a minute with our wine and lets me taste. When I nod, he pours for us then disappears again.
I raise my glass with a mocking smile. “To another meeting.”
She picks up hers and drinks without a word like she’s chugging down cheap vinegary junk. If she noticed the excellent vintage, she doesn’t show it. But then she was rarely impressed with wine.
After placing her empty glass on the table, she looks away and leans back in her seat, toying with the neckline of her shirt. She’s nervous. Feeling guilty about the way she left me? She should be. What she did was a shit move. And I want her to feel terrible about it. That’s the least she owes me.
Our server brings out our appetizer. I barely glance at it. My attention is on the woman opposite.
I can’t help but notice—again—how much thinner she is. And it’s annoying as hell. She didn’t weigh much to begin with, and she really can’t afford to lose more and stay healthy.
Why should I give a damn? She should be as miserable as I’ve been.
But I can’t help caring. She told me once…
“Seriously? You actually like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” She makes a face, her fork hovering over her salad.
“Sometimes, when I’m in the mood.” I grin. “Why? Did you think my favorite food was caviar or something?”
Her nose wrinkles adorably. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you were born with it clutched in your fists.” She shakes her head. “I can’t stand them. I even looked forward to Mondays when I was growing up because of them.”
“What does a PBJ have to do with Monday?”
“I got to go back to school.”
She stretches her legs under the shabby table at the small Greek restaurant and pops an olive into her mouth.
I laugh. “You must’ve been a nerd.” I generally found Mondays unbearable because my classes were boring and pointless.
She snorted. “No. It’s because on Mondays I was able to eat something other than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”