“And I appreciate it,” he soothed me, squeezing my arm. “Now let’s go to dinner.”
“What if it’s horrible?” I groused at him.
“Then afterward, I’ll take you to the Chicago Diner for veggie burgers.”
“Fine,” I grumbled.
He bumped me gently, and the smile that fired his eyes warmed me up inside as we made our way down the many flights of stairs.
As predicted,Bluebeard’s Wife was a Michelin-starred restaurant down on Walnut Street in the West Loop. At a certain point, I was on autopilot and almost drove back to work. Inside, it was all dimmed lights and mercury glass vases and quiet ambiance. Apparently, this was a place with fixed menu courses and wine pairings, and even though I normally liked all that, tonight I would have much rather gone for burgers with Cel, gotten them to go, and driven back to my place and watched a movie. The fact of the matter was, I preferred being alone with Cel to anything else.
He left me to go to the bathroom, and I was escorted to the private dining area. Before I walked in, I heard the mayor’s wife.
“No, no,” Lydia Grainger was telling one of her guests. “The Chief Deputy won’t be joining us, praise Jesus, but his public affairs person, Deputy Kohn, will be here. I’ve never met him, only seen him a few times briefly on the news, but he seemed far more presentable. Though you know these law enforcement types—he could be a troglodyte in person.”
Thank God I’d gone home and showered and changed into my two-button Stefano Ricci Fiesole suit so I wouldn’t look rumpled anymore. Didn’t want to show up at a fancy restaurant looking like something the cat dragged in and misrepresent my fellow marshals.
Walking in, I smiled at the people standing around and then made my way over to Mrs. Grainger. She turned to me, the two women with her stepping in close beside her.
“Hello,” she said softly, looking me up and down before offering me her hand. “Who might you be?”
“I’m Deputy US Marshal Eli Kohn, Public Affairs Director for the Northern District of Illinois,” I answered, giving her the whole title as I took her hand. “I’m here to listen to your plans about your fundraiser that the marshals service has the pleasure of providing security for.”
Her lips parted as she stared at me. “I had no idea marshals cleaned up so well.”
Like she knew anything about us besides what she saw on TV and the movies. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She turned suddenly, still holding my hand. “Kathleen,” she said loudly. “Come meet Marshal Kohn.”
I didn’t correct marshal to deputy marshal, just stood there and met her daughter, who stared up into my face with interest I recognized. The thing was, I wasn’t dating at the moment, but even if I were, the mayor’s daughter? Seriously? I’d made some poor decisions in the past—Natalie, the woman I followed to Chicago, came to mind—but the mayor’s daughter would be right there near the top.
“Celso Harrington,” Mrs. Grainger gasped, and everyone turned to him, mother, daughter, others who were suddenly crowding us, and I was forgotten. It was not at all a bad thing.
He was his regular charming self. What I liked was his arm, wrapped around mine, that grounded me in my space.
I liked him next to me, and if we were touching, that was the best. When he turned, in the middle of talking, people hanging on his every word, and grinned at me, my stomach did that weird fluttery thing that had lately become my new normal. It happened when I hugged him, and unlike when I left him or said good night, when my stomach actually felt like it was being squeezed in a vise, this was more like having birds in my gut and chest trying to get out. It was the strangest thing.
Mrs. Grainger wanted Cel on her right, her daughter on her left, so I pulled out his chair, and then once he was seated, put my hand on the chair beside him.
“Oh, Marshal, I’d prefer you take a seat next to my assistant, Adrian, down on––”
“He brought me,” Cel interrupted her, pushing the chair out. “So he’s stuck to my side all evening. I must insist.”
“I—you’re not here to talk about the fundraiser?”
“No, I am,” Lincoln Palmer announced as he walked into the room with Senan Weaver. “So I think Celso and the marshal are in our spots.”
Mrs. Grainger stood and shook Palmer’s hand and then practically lunged at Senan. She was clearly smitten with him. For his part, he was smiling, but just barely. He looked better than the choreographer, who appeared to have slept in his suit and rolled out of bed. Senan, in a pale gray Hermès suit that fit like a glove, looked infinitely better. He’d paired it with a dark-blue dress shirt, and he would have looked quite striking if he weren’t smirking.
Cel was, as usual, wearing a suit by another of his favorite obscure designers I was certain no one had ever heard of. The jacket was tailored and long but voluminous, falling to mid-thigh in the back, almost like a cape. In contrast, his trousers were tight, molding to his long, shapely legs. Only if you were a patron of the arts—or of his—did you know that under his clothes, he had the hard-as-steel, compact musculature dancers were known for. Everything he wore on top, shirts and jackets, always looked a size too big. I had a theory that because all his costumes were so tight and binding, all the brocade and silk, lace and leather, he dressed on his off time like a cross between a house painter and a hipster when he went casual, and something out of a steampunk novel when he dressed up. I loved the quirkiness, but most of all I liked him at home with me in leggings and T-shirts and his oversize cardigans. I liked it when we watched TV together with junk food between us all spread out on the couch. That was my favorite.
“Let me move,” Cel offered, and I pulled his chair out so he could get up.
“No, no, let me,” Kathleen suggested quickly, moving down to the third chair. “This way Mama can have a principal dancer on both sides of her.”
Mrs. Grainger was beaming at her daughter.
“Do you feel like a queen?” Kathleen teased her mother, and it was nice to see how warm their relationship was.