On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(28)

“Close enough.” Jason lowered his phone. “Had a good nap?”

“I think. Deep.” Blake shook himself and yawned. “Really deep.”

“Coffee?”

“God, yes.”

“I’ll go get some.” Jason slipped his cell phone into his pocket and stood. He left the room, the door clicking shut behind him. Blake pushed the blankets away and shed the bathrobe, then headed to the bathroom to get ready to go out. His reflection looked somewhat bleary, but some cold water helped with that. Then he shaved, brushed his teeth, and dressed in a fresh set of clothes, all of which made him feel human.

He was finishing off his tie knot when the door opened again.

“I’m dubious about the hotel coffee,” Jason said, “so I nipped out to get you one from the chain store down the street.”

Blake accepted the paper cup with a grateful nod. “Don’t tell me you watched me sleep for three hours.”

Jason chuckled. “I won’t. Because I didn’t. I waited for you to fall asleep and then answered emails.”

“Must have been quite the emails.” Blake took a careful sip through the white plastic lid. The coffee was strong but not bitter. Already, he felt more awake and focused. Clearly a placebo effect, but he wasn’t looking that gift horse in the mouth.

“Small keyboard.” Jason settled in the chair again. “I did make reservations at one of my favorite restaurants.”

“For when?”

“This evening, whenever we show up. She’s going to hold the table for us as long as necessary.”

“A friend?”

“Something like that.” Jason winked. “She prefers to hold the table for friends than feed arseholes.”

“Sounds great.”

“Getting there means getting through one of those areas where traffic is a clusterf*ck, though. Any objection to slumming it via public transit?”

“Absolutely not.”





A bus, two tube trains, and a short walk later, they strolled in through the front door of a hole-in-the-wall he’d have gone right past on his own. Perfect—those places were nearly always better than the glitzy top-dollar restaurants, but they were sure hard to find sometimes. This one was about as conspicuous as the shy, mousy student in the back row of a lecture hall—there all along, but startled the hell out of everyone when she finally said something.

The door had barely banged shut behind them before a smiling brunette came out from the back, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Jason?” She beamed, lighting up the whole room. “About time you finally came back!” Her restaurant may have been mousy and understated, but she certainly wasn’t.

She glanced at Blake, then at Jason, the unspoken question in her eyes.

“This is my friend, Blake,” Jason said. “Blake, Emily.”

“Nice to meet you,” Blake said, offering his hand.

She shook it. “You too.” She pulled a pair of slim menus from a small hostess’s podium. “You did say it was only the two of you, right?”

“Please.” Jason seemed even more British next to someone as charismatic as Emily. Even a bit reserved. Watching him interact with another Londoner like that amused Blake, since he knew how unreserved Jason was behind closed doors.

Guess I know something you all don’t know.

That almost made him chuckle, but he cleared his throat to mask it.

Emily sat them near the back. There were only a few tables here, none of which were occupied. After she’d gone to get their drinks, Blake perused the menu. “Not much of a crowd tonight.”

“They’ll be here.” Jason checked his phone. “Another thirty minutes, and she’ll have a waiting list.”

“Is that right?” Blake glanced at the front door.

“Watch and see. The Michelin-starred places in this city have got nothing on Emily.”

“So the hipsters haven’t quite caught on yet?”

“No. This place is in the pre-hipster stage, but a few steps away from the friends-and-family one.” Jason opened the menu and glanced over the list with the expression of a man whose mind was made up. “Go on.”

Blake skimmed over the menu again—two soups, three starters, four salads, five mains, three desserts, a wine list of ten. About half of those were vegetarian, too, which was one thing he’d noticed about British restaurants and the British in general: They took their vegetarian options very seriously. “Anything you’d recommend?”

“Definitely the saltimbocca. And I’ll add the roasted vegetables and salad.”

“Sounds good. Wine?”

“There’s an Italian chianti that goes spectacularly with the veal.”

“Convinced.” Blake put the menu down and closed it.

Emily’s timing was great—she showed up again, but with a little notepad. “So what can I get you?”

“I’m glad the saltimbocca is back,” Jason said. “So that and the usual.”

She tilted her head. “It’s only on the menu when I have a good source for the ingredients.”

Jason handed both menus to her with a sheepish expression. “I do wish you’d compromise sometimes.”

“Compromise on quality in your line of work and see how happy that makes you.” She winked. “Or your clientele.”