Arranged(16)

I almost answered with a sarcastic, Yes, sir, but restrained myself. Barely. “Alright,” I managed to get out instead.

Our main course arrived, and silence reigned again for a time.

I took a few bites of my branzino while he devoured his grass-fed beef.

“You don’t like it?” he asked me when the waiter took our plates away.

“It was great, but I filled up on salad.”

“No, you didn’t,” he contradicted. “You had two bites of that salad then pushed it around your plate for ten minutes.”

“I don’t want to go over my calorie count,” I leveled with him. It was the truth. I had a photo shoot in the morning that involved skin-tight clothing.

He’d been lifting his fifth bourbon to his mouth, but he stopped mid-motion at that, setting his glass back down. “You hardly ate anything.”

I turned my head to meet his eyes and tried to keep my expression perfectly blank. “I’m on a strict diet. For the job.” He may as well get used to my eating habits.

“What you ordered wasn’t enough food to feed a rabbit, and you barely touched it,” he sounded angry, and a little drunk. “Define strict.”

“I’m restricted to eleven hundred calories a day,” I admitted.

“Eleven hundred calories?” he asked incredulously. He didn’t understand what models had to do to stay coat-hanger sized. He knew how to fuck them, but clearly had no clue how to feed them. Eleven hundred actually wasn’t even bad. It was generous. That was the maintenance number. When I was actively trying to lose weight, it could vary from nine to as low as five hundred.

Eventually I nodded, studying his face.

He looked more pissed than usual for some reason. His lip curled up in distaste and he tossed his napkin on the table. “Well, that nonsense is coming to an end. I’ll speak to your chef.”

I stiffened. If you messed with a model’s diet, you messed with her career. If he hated our arrangement enough that it might make him want to sabotage me that would be a good way to do it. I almost stood up to him, but I forced myself to back down. Whatever he tried to do about my diet, it wouldn’t matter. I’d act amenable, pretend to eat whatever was put in front of me, move the food around my plate, etc., but if it went over my calorie count I just wouldn’t consume it. I was used to denying myself. Rigid self-control was an old friend of mine.

He called the waiter over. “My wife,” he stressed the word in a certain way, like he found it so distasteful and oppressive that he wanted even strangers to know it, “would like dessert. A praline mousse roulade, I think. And I’ll have another round. Thank you.”

I waited until the man left before I said quietly, “I can’t eat that.”

He sent me a less than friendly look. “Indulge me. My father forced me to fly all the way here from London just to take you on a romantic date, so I think you can go over your calories for one night.”

Dessert arrived, and with a sigh I did indulge him, all the while calculating how much more time I’d need on the treadmill to compensate for the extra calories.

We didn’t speak for a time, and the quiet between us felt less awkward/hostile and more charged. Charged with something interesting.

Yes, he hated me. But he’d also kind of admitted that he was attracted to me. In spite of myself, I was kind of attracted to him too. It was hard not to be. He was as beautiful as he was mean.

What’s he thinking? I wondered, studying him as I took a very tiny bite of my decadent dessert, stirring the rest of it around on the plate to make it look smaller.

God, he’s gorgeous, my fuzzy buzzed mind told me.

I wanted to touch him, to lean into him. Mostly I wanted to read his mind.

That last one was out of the question, but what would he do if I tried out the first one? If I just reached over and brushed that oh so touchable lock of silky dark hair back from his temple?

That was the problem with him. He seemed touchable no matter how untouchable he may actually be. Well that was one of the problems, another being the fact that I was married to him and he couldn’t stand me.

He turned his head, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity I couldn’t place. He grabbed the spoon, scooping up a small bite of mousse. “Do you want a taste?” he asked, the words succinct.

My mind wasn’t on the dessert as I exhaled a breathless, “Yes.”

He put it to my lips. Our eyes stayed locked as I sucked it clean.

When I was finished, he drew the spoon away. He set it down beside the dish, watching me closely. I couldn’t look away. His eyes had a way of holding me captive. I resented it, but it made me feel alive.

“Look at that. We barely know each other and here I am feeding you.”

I drew in an unsteady breath, then another.

He’d had his elbow on the table between us, keeping up a clear barrier. As I watched, he moved his arm, placing it along the cushioned seat behind me.

“Come closer,” he told me softly.

I leaned toward him, bringing my face near to his.

“Closer,” he said, voice softer still. His eyes were on my mouth.

The arm along my seat back wrapped around my shoulders, tugging me closer still until our lips were a breath away from touching.

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” he breathed the words right into my lungs and yet somehow the words were remarkably dispassionate. “You’re supposed to kiss me now.”