Page 74 of Hot Nights in Morocco
My cell beeps. “Sorry, gotta go. My cab’s downstairs.” I grab my bag and bolt for the door before she has a chance to stop me.
“Charlie, wait!”
“I’ll fill you in on everything later, I promise!”
In the cab, Brad messages me the name of the restaurant. I chuck my cell back into my bag and hope it’s not too upscale. The only swanky places I like are six-star Moroccan hotels that come with a naked Jake Dalton as standard.
Don’t go there, Charlie. Don’t go there.
I’m wearing the only decent dress I have in my closet. It’s Lucy’s black bodycon from Morocco. I managed to fix the busted zip with the kitchen scissors this afternoon, and I’m determined to ignore both history and semantics tonight.
“Can I help you, madam?” A glassy-eyed, glossy-coiffured maître d’ pounces on me as soon as I creep inside the front door. The restaurant is chic but not nauseatingly so—a buzzing boutique hot spot where a cherry-red bougainvillea and pallid-pink climbing rose have exploded over the front porch in a vapor of color.
“She’s with me.”
Brad materializes to my left, and he’s all aftershave and dynamism. He looks incredible, as usual, like a reformed bad boy who’s kept that nuance of danger and rebellion about him. He’s swapped the black puffa for a dark blue three-piece, and his blond hair has been neatly brushed back off his face. Every woman in the vicinity is pivoting in his direction.
“You look amazing,” he says, kissing me chastely on the cheek. I stiffen as his lips graze my skin. I’m dining with the enemy. I want to turn and run, but my legs won’t allow it. Fortunately, Brad doesn’t seem to notice. He takes my arm and leads me over to our table, which is easily the best in the house.
“Tell me about your movie,” I blurt out as our waiter fusses with the wine cork. Brad’s already ordered something red and expensive.
“Murder mystery,” he says, tasting the wine and nodding approvingly.
“Can I presume Cassie gets decapitated and thrown in the River Thames in the first scene? Or have you built enough contingency into your budget for a record number of takes?”
Brad grins. “You really don’t like her, huh?”
“What’s there to like?” I take a large gulp of my wine.
“You know, she’s okay once you get to know her.”
“Do you want her back?” I start fiddling with my bread knife next. I can’t believe that the blight of my love life is a famous American actress with fake tits and the likeability factor of Osama bin Laden.
“Fuck, no!” Brad laughs. “She drives me up the wall. God knows how Jake put up with it for years.”
God knows, indeed.
“That’s the big difference between you and him, right there.” I drop the bread knife and take another gulp of wine. “If I’d asked him the same question, he would have changed the subject.”
“That’s not the only difference, I hope.”
“Well, we’re not fighting with each other…yet. That seemed to be the modus operandi in Morocco.” I grimace. “Do you think I’m insecure?”
Brad picks up the menu. “Not in the slightest. You’re one of the ballsiest women I know. I think Jakemadeyou insecure.”
I sit back to contemplate that, but end up asking, “Who’s Sienna?”
Brad pauses a millisecond too long. “No idea,” he says, his eyes flicking back to his menu. “Are you ready to order?”
“Not yet. Tell me about your mother.”
He frowns and slaps the menu down on the table. “The smoked salmon mousse here is awesome. You should try it.”
“Nice change of subject there.” I shoot him a quick grin. “Turns out, you’re more like your brother than you think.”
Indigo switches to cold, hard steel and I feel the first wave of uneasiness.
“Sorry, bad choice of words,” I mutter.
