Page 48 of Bridesmaid By Chance
“Well, this place is nice,” I say as I place my napkin on my lap and take in the opulence of the restaurant.
I will say this, coming from a family who had absolutely nothing and then sliding into the world of the Hopper family, it’s been a bit of a shock. It started when we flew out to Bora Bora for Haisley and Jude’s wedding on a private jet. I had never flown before, let alone on a private airplane. Then we had a dream vacation on a remote island in bungalows that sat over the water. Everything was paid for; all we had to do was watch our brother get married and hang out with the family. It was honestly amazing.
And working for Hudson has had its perks. When I have to run errands for him, his driver drives me around. And let me tell you, not having to worry about parking in San Francisco, that’s a perk on its own.
And this restaurant. Yowza.
You don’t get through the front door unless you have a reservation. The tables are far enough apart from each other where you don’t overhear any conversation. The lighting is dim, the booths are high and private, and I swear you could get away with some fondling and no one would even know. Although the fanciness is rather high, so I’m not sure anyone would stoop to the level of fondling.
“It’s one of my favorite restaurants,” he says, not even attempting to look at the menu in front of us.
It’s one of those one-sheet menus with a few dishes on it. If you put fifty of these together, you would have the menu for The Cheesecake Factory.
“Oh yeah, why’s that?”
“I know the chef well. His food is well seasoned and expertly cooked, and the presentation is immaculate.”
Imagine living a life where “the presentation” is something you rate a restaurant on.
I prefer a good old sloppy breakfast thrown together on one plate at a diner.
This though, this is one of those places where they use a cloth to clean any stray drips or steam from the surface before shipping it out to the tables. And don’t get me started on the white gloves being worn by the waitstaff.
“Ah yes, presentation is key,” I say just as he looks up at me, sensing my sarcasm.
This man has made it a point to avoid all eye contact with me up until we’ve reached this restaurant, and now all of a sudden he’s going to act like I exist?
All day he barely spoke to me in the office. And when we were in the car, I didn’t even know he realized there was a passenger on board. But here, now, he’s giving me the time of day with those sultry eyes.
It’s jarring.
Alarming.
Not something I’m used to because let’s call a spade a spade, my husband is hot.
Capital H, hot.
Like,wowza, this guy is not human.
I always thought he was incredibly handsome with his suit on, but with it off—let me bite my fist because holy moly, I was trembling last night.
All I kept thinking about as I tried to go to sleep waswill he accidentally graze my breast?Sure, he was on the very edge of his side and there was no possible chance of any sort of midnight collision, but God, did I think about it. And I thought about what I would do too.
I would act all coy and be like,oops, was that my breast?And then slowly roll onto my back, my shirt would ride up, and then oops, he’d touch my bare hip. He’d grumble, I’d grumble, and then I’d turn again only to have him tear off my shirt and suck my?—
“Did you hear me?”
“Huh? What? I don’t know about forks.”
His brow creases. “I wasn’t talking about forks.”
“Oh, you weren’t?” I nervously laugh and then adjust my silverware. “What, uh, what were you talking about?”
“I asked if you wanted me to order for you.”
“Oh, uh, that’s not necessary.” I lift up the menu and my eyes focus in on the words that make absolutely no sense to me. “What does ‘confit’ mean?” I lower the menu back down and say, “Actually that sounds like a great idea. I trust you. As long as there are no raw tomatoes, then we’re golden.”
“Not a fan of tomatoes?” he asks.
