“It’s a cardio experiment,” I teased. “Try to run on the treadmill while maintaining an overseas phone call in a language you don’t fully understand. A real calorie burner.”
He laughed again, a pleasant sound I could tell was already growing on me.
“So what is it exactly that you do?”
No work talk? First obstacle.
Fortunately, I was saved from having to reply when Marco (not Pierre) placed the complimentary appetizer down upon the table. He did so with a relish, and flashed me a conspiratorial wink. Melanie must have told him about the date.
“And what will we be having tonight?”
The servers here were forbidden from using pen and paper. Everything had to be memorized—no matter the size of the table.
“I think I’ll get the salmon with sauce on the side.” Cameron shut his menu and turned expectantly to me. “Abigail?”
“Just a salad for me, thanks.”
Cameron blinked in confusion, while Marco simultaneously kicked my chair.
Shit—I’d fucked up already!
Salad was a knee-jerk reaction. The one safe, cheap thing on the menu I always ordered while sitting at a table by myself. Safely out of ear shot from the real date, but close enough to jump in should anything go wrong. (With my roster of clients, things often went wrong.)
But salad was hardly a date food, just by itself. Already, I could feel the heat begin to rise up in the base of my neck, as two sets of eyes bore into me.
“Actually...the salmon sounds great.”
I handed up my menu to Marco, carefully avoiding the man’s gaze. It didn’t matter. I could practically feel the smirk.
“Right away.”
Then he was off. Leaving me several steps back from where I’d started.
“So, Abigail,” the hand was back on mine, paired with an affectionate smile, “you never told me what it is you do.”
As if on cue, one of the phones buzzed in my purse. I set the clutch on the ground without looking, keeping a smile fixed on my face.
Just get it over with, Abby. It’s a standard question. Get it over with and move on to the FISH—you idiot—not the SALAD.
“I work in public relations, actually.”
He leaned back in surprise.
“You’re a publicist. Really?”
I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, and laughed as nervously as him.
“Why? Do I not look like one?”
“No, it’s not that, just...well actually, yeah.” He laced his fingers through mine with a wide grin. “You don’t really look like one.”
I got that a lot.
Mostly because I looked like I belonged on the other side of the bridge. The wealthier side. The easier side. The side that threw the parties, not the side that worked them.
I had once gotten all the way to the second floor of a Russian palace—after receiving a 911 text from a client—before being escorted outside by security. The rest of the team had found me later, gloating in the snow.
But I appreciated this guy’s honesty either way. Another endearing trait. If it weren’t for the fact that I already had a fake brother to maintain, I might actually start to like this Cameron.