This one was a silver convertible. It was early afternoon, and sunshine peeked through the clouds, casting a warm, dappled light across the city. The weather was finally nice enough that a convertible sounded wonderful. Owen opened the door to the passenger side, his face going pale as I sat down.
"I just realized your hair, and the car..."
I laughed. "Don't worry. There is enough hair spray on this to hold it through a hurricane. Besides, I think the windswept look is in right now. I'd rather drive with the top down and enjoy this weather than have the roof up."
His face brightened again, and he jumped into the driver's seat. With a roar of the engine, he pulled out onto the busy street, the wind blowing gently in my hair. He drove through the city, pointing out different landmarks and places that he thought I might enjoy. It wasn't long before we reached a stylish white brick building with ivy crawling up toward the windows.
Owen tossed the keys to a valet and hurried over to help me out. I smoothed my hair from the drive, a little surprised at just how well it had held up. It was surprisingly easy to maneuver out of the fancy sports car in my flowing dress, but I gladly accepted Owen's hand to help me stand. Any excuse to touch him was a good excuse.
Inside the white building, we walked through the main room to a private dining area. Everything had a golden glow, as though the entire place was candlelit. A string quartet played softly in the corner, their music soothing and the perfect volume for dinner conversation.
Owen pulled an ornate chair out for me to get my legs situated under the heavy wooden table, and then helped to push me under once I was seated. I glanced nervously at the array of utensils displayed before me. I was used to a salad fork and regular fork at restaurants, but there were tiny forks, an extra spoon, and more glasses than I knew what to do with. I was out of my league here.
The waiter placed my napkin on my lap and handed me a large leather-bound menu as Owen ordered a bottle of wine. I opened it up, wondering what culinary delights I would find inside. Instead, I stared at the pages, feeling foolish. I couldn't understand a word on the menu. It was all in French, and despite my French last name, I couldn't read a word.
Owen peeked over his menu at me and caught my blank look. He whispered softly, "Chicken, fish, or beef?"
"Fish."
"Do you mind if I order for you?"
I shook my head, grateful that I wouldn't have to choose between butchering the beautiful language or pointing to the menu in silent shame.
"Is there anything you don't want to eat? Are you all right trying escargot? It's amazing here," Owen asked. I smiled, glad he was making sure I would enjoy what he ordered for me.
"I'll try anything. Escargot is snails, right? I'll try it, but I have no idea how to actually eat it." I gave him a brave smile, a touch of nerves hitting me. This place was far fancier than anything I had ever even imagined possible. Back home, even the nicest places let people walk in and order wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Here, everyone was elegantly dressed in designer gowns and suits, and I had a feeling that jeans and a T-shirt would never even get to look at a menu.
When the waiter returned to fill up our wine glasses, Owen ordered in perfect, or at least what sounded perfect to me, French. The waiter nodded and took our menus, disappearing once again.
"You speak French?" I asked Owen, impressed at learning of his talent. He blushed a little.
"Only enough to sound like I know what I'm doing when I order in a restaurant. Pierre, my chef, taught me a little. I can swear decently in French, though, also thanks to Pierre." He gave me a little boy's naughty grin and I couldn't help but smile back.
"What other languages do you speak?" I sipped on my wine, wondering if I should raise my pinky in the air. No, that was for tea; it just didn't seem fancy enough to just drink the normal way in a place like this.
"I am getting pretty good at Arabic, and I can order cervezas like a pro in Spanish. But other than that, I just know key phrases. You?"
"I know some medical Spanish, but I wouldn't say I'm even close to fluent. Will I need to know Arabic for our trip?"
Owen smiled and shook his head. "No. All these business dealings will be done in English."
I was about to ask more, but the waiter returned with two small round plates that he set in front of each of us. Six tan and white shells were presented like artwork, each in its own little hollow of the special plate and dressed in butter. It smelled fantastic.
Owen picked up a pair of tongs and a slender two pronged fork from the assortment of utensils before us. I mimicked his motions as he grasped the shell with the tongs and used the fork to pull the meat out of the shell. I hesitantly put the food in my mouth, unsure of what to expect.
It was delicious. The snail reminded me slightly of an oyster, but with an earthy taste instead of salty. The butter sauce was creamy and divine, giving the little piece of meat more flavor than I had been expecting for something so small.
"You like it?" Owen asked, dipping a piece of bread into the butter sauce.
I nodded, going for a second shell. The tongs slipped and the shell threatened to fly off the table, like the scene from Pretty Woman, but I caught it before it got too far.
"Slippery little suckers," I said, glancing around to make sure no one else had seen my scramble with the shell. Owen chuckled.
"You'll get better at it the more you eat them."
"I know we are going to Dubai, but what are we doing there? Are you sure it will be okay for me to come?" I half hoped he would tell me that I actually wasn't coming and that I didn't have to get on another plane. I half hoped that I could just rent a car and drive home, but that would mean I wouldn't be with Owen.
"Yes, I'm sure that it's fine. I wouldn't have asked you otherwise. I know you had to take time off work for this, which I appreciate, so I'm going to make sure you have a good time. As far as what we are doing there, we will be wooing a sheik."