"Um," I murmur, looking up. "I don’t think these are ours. We haven't even seen a menu yet."
He just looks at me like I'm insane.
"Thank you," Patrick interjects, dismissing him before turning an amused smile on me. "I forgot you've never been here. There's an a la carte menu, but the tasting menu is much better. Seven courses and I ordered the wine pairings too. Speaking of…"
I turn just as two quarter-filled glasses of wine are set on the table, I don't catch the full description—I'm too focused on trying to discern what food is about to go in my mouth—but I recognize the words sauvignon blanc. The wine, at least, I know I'll like.
Without hesitation, Patrick picks up his spoon and polishes off the food in one bite, taking a small sip of wine to wash it down.
I swallow, a slight sliver of dread tickling my throat, and glance back at my plate, wondering if Cinderella had to deal with raw fish for her prince charming. Somehow, I doubt it. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm all for trying new foods, but I'm more of a burger and fries, spaghetti and meatballs, take-out Chinese sort of girl.
Laughter pulls my eyes away from the food. It’s Patrick, watching me watch my plate. "Aren't you going to eat it?"
"Oh, sure," I reply, reaching for the spoon, trying to act braver than I feel. "I just like to get the full aesthetic experience before I eat."
He raises his eyebrows, grin deepening as I bring the spoon to my lips.
One.
Two.
Three.
I open and swallow the contents.
Not bad, but not really my favorite either. It's a little…slimy. I reach for my wine, downing it in one sip, before looking up at Patrick with a sort of apologetic expression. And the rest of dinner passes in a somewhat similar fashion.
There's a spot in the middle where I actually recognize what I'm eating—lobster tail and then some sort of beef—but for the most part, I grin and bear it, telling myself I'm becoming more cultured with each passing second. The wine though, the wine is absolutely fantastic. And after one glass of champagne and seven miniature glasses of wine, I'm more than a little tipsy by the time dessert—a strange tapioca ball concoction—is cleared off the table. What can I say? Lots of wine and teeny tiny little portions make for a drunk Skylar.
"So, what did you think?" Patrick asks as we exit the restaurant, making our way toward the elevator. I hold onto his arm, leaning into his body for support. Oh, I can walk perfectly fine, I'm not that tipsy. But the wine has sort of whisked my inhibitions far enough away that I give in to the desire to touch him, to hold him. Beneath my hands, his bicep flexes just enough to make me curious about what other muscles hide beneath his clothes. Note to self—tasting menus at very expensive restaurants are dangerous. Steer clear in the future! You'll find your hormones raging with reckless abandon in only a few short hours.
"Did you like the food?" Patrick asks again.
"It was different," I say diplomatically. "Not really like anything I've had before. But next time, I think I should get to choose the spot."
He doesn’t answer.
And then I realize my mistake.
Next time! Why did I say next time? Stupid inebriated loose lips!
I close my eyes tight, letting him lead my steps, but then I give in to curiosity and take a peek up. He senses the movement and looks down.
"And what spot is that?"
I bite my lip, thinking for a moment, but really—it’s a no brainer. "Shake Shack. Madison Park. We can wait in line for an hour and freeze our butts off, then chow down on burgers and fries, freezing a little bit more from the milkshakes. But in the end, it'll totally be worth it."
He tilts his head a little, eyes brightening as if that's the last response he ever expected, but then reaches out his hand. "Deal."
"Deal," I repeat and we shake on it as we make our way outside. The night air sends a chill down my spine, causing goose bumps to pucker my skin. Patrick shrugs out of his suit jacket, resting it around my shoulders, and I hug the edges tight, breathing in the subtle scent of cologne.
I look at him.
He looks down at me.
A nervous tingle tickles my neck, and I know this is that moment at the end of the night that I dread—that moment when I take a cab home by myself or toss my caution to the wind and go home with him. But even after the romance and the wine, my choice is clear. Still though, I'm not ready to say goodbye, not ready for the magic of this night to end.
"A carriage ride!" I blurt, completely ruining the moment.
Patrick recoils, surprised by my outburst. "What?"
I look to the right where horses and carriages line up at the edge of the park, just waiting for riders, and take his hand.
"Come on, I've always wanted to do one of these. I've seen it in the movies a thousand times."
Patrick sighs. "You know what's not in the movies? Something someone born and raised in Manhattan can tell you?"
I refuse to give in to his sarcasm, keeping my mood cheerful. "What?"
"Those things stink."
"Don’t be a downer."
"No, Skylar, they smell. Horrible."
And as we walk across the street, I begin to see what he means. The overwhelming scent of manure seeps through my nostrils, ripe, harsh enough to cut through the buzz the wine has made in my brain. But it’s too late. I'm already set on the idea. And Patrick relents.
We settle in the backseat and yes, it does stink. But as the driver eases off the curb and pulls into the softly lit park, Patrick wraps his arm around me and I snuggle against his side. My heartbeat quickens, pulse racing, as a familiar set of butterflies returns to my stomach. But these are nerves of anticipation, and a wave of excitement washes over me, standing my hairs on end, making my entire body alert.
I look up.
Patrick is already watching me.
Our breath teases, filling the minute space between our lips, tickling the surface of my skin. His eyes dance, twinkling like stars. They start to close and mine follow. Pulled together by the wine and the romance, his lips land velvet soft against mine, and we’re kissing. A rush of pleasure curls my toes and I sigh as he pulls me closer, erasing the gap between our bodies.
Suddenly, the smell is the last thing on my mind.
I've never been one for public displays of affection. I mean, a little peck is fine, but when two people are eating each other's faces during my morning commute, we're going to have a problem. So you can believe me when I say I feel really, really guilty when, three make out filled carriage rides later, I meet the disgusted, judging eyes of our driver. But you'll probably also believe me when I say, oh man was it worth it.
I'm floating.
Really, I'm not sure my feet are touching the ground as I finally say goodbye to Patrick and slip into my apartment building, lips puckered and swollen from a night very well spent. I've never really understood that whole cloud nine saying, but right now I think I'm there.
"Skye!"
Scratch that…the cloud has just disintegrated and I'm making a rapid descent back to earth. Mayday! Help! Maybe if I just ignore him, he'll go away.
"Skye!" And then a warm hand lands on my shoulder, turning me around. Heart plummeting I give in and spin, meeting Ollie's curious gaze. "I thought that was you," he continues, and then looks over his shoulder and out the door, looking for something—or someone. "Who was that guy?"