Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(17)

“You’re tall tonight.” He wraps his hands around my waist and pulls me in for a kiss, tongues and all.

I swoon a little. I’m five foot seven without heels. He still towers over me; he must be at least six foot three. “Sorry I’m so casually dressed. My packing itinerary didn’t cater to five-star restaurants.” I don’t admit to him I have no fancy clothes, period.

“You’re perfect just the way you are. It doesn’t matter what you wear.” He takes my hand. “Shall we? I’ve arranged a car for us.”

***

“So, you eat everything.” His eyes crinkle across the small table adorned with candles. “I’ll hold you to that.”

That was a complete lie. I have Crohn’s disease, a type of irritable bowel disease, but it doesn’t feel like a first-date disclosure. Most of the time I can manage it if I’m careful with my diet. But it’s always at the back of my mind. When a restaurant host asks me if I want a window seat, I always say, no, I’d like one beside the toilet, please. It’s the same with planes and trains. One eye is always watching the bathroom queue.

I can’t do that tonight.

I wasn't expecting Botrini's to be so quaint. I study their menu, salivating. I’m regretting wearing these tight jeans.

Wait, what if we’re splitting the bill? I shouldn’t assume he is paying, should I?

“What type of wine do you like?” Tristan asks.

What type of wine do I like? I’ve only had a few solid years of wine drinking. Megan and I have been choosing our wine by the alcohol percentage, so I think that makes me more of a wine ignoramus rather than a wine connoisseur. My knowledge ends at red, white, rose, and orange. Although I’ve never tasted orange. “You decide,” I say.

“I’m going to order a bottle of the Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1989.” He closes his menu decisively. “You’ll love it.”

I scan the list of wines trying to find it. “How much is it?” I ask tentatively. Wine older than me sounds very expensive.

He looks affronted. “I’m paying, Elena. I asked you here.”

I let out a breath. Fantastic. I won’t be sticking to the house wine in that case. “Why do I have a feeling that you always like to be in control, Tristan?”

His eyes darken, and he leans back in his chair. “Happy for you to take full control this evening.”

I smile sweetly back. “Happy to.”

The waiter approaches us, greeting us in English. Tristan begins to speak but I place a hand over his, and address the waiter in Greek, ordering the wine.

“So, I’m in control, huh? Does that mean you trust me to order food for us?”

“Be my guest.”

I launch into a full-scale conversation with the waiter, stretching my Greek vocabulary to its limit.

Tristan watches my face intensely, like I’m the most important person in the restaurant—no, scrap that—in the Greek islands. As the waiter leaves, Tristan leans forward with a hungry glint in his eyes. “There is something insanely sexy about a woman being in control. Particularly a multilingual one.”

Mission accomplished.

My eyes widen. “Shit! I never asked if you have any allergies?”

“No allergies. Just addictions.” He winks. “To breath-taking Welsh Croatian multilingual women.”

I roll my eyes as the waiter comes back with our middle-aged wine. “Too cheesy.”

“Sorry.” He shrugs as the waiter pours. “It’s still true.” Brow creasing into a serious line, he takes the wine glass by its stem and tilts it to study it in the light. Satisfied, he swirls it and sniffs before taking a sip.

I think of the supermarket wine in a box I had been drinking that you don’t want to see, smell or taste; you just let it flow through you.

I follow suit, attempting to drink the wine like a grown-up. I tilt the glass and pretend to study the wine. I’ve no clue what I’m looking for so I skip to the next stage and take a large sip. It slides down my throat smoother than the supermarket wine. Test passed.

Tristan leans forward, resting his strong forearms on the table. “If you like that wine, we could go on a wine tasting tour tomorrow. There’s a lovely one on the other side of the island.”

My eyes widen. There’s a tomorrow for us?

“I can’t,” I say, disappointed but happy that he also looks disappointed. “I promised Megan I would go to Delis Island. To see the ruins? She wants to paint them.”

“The photographer and the painter.” He smiles. “It makes me mildly surprised you want to be a lawyer.”

“We have this romantic vision of travelling all over the world painting and taking pictures, then we’ll open an art gallery and sell our work. For millions, naturally.” I roll my eyes. “But I’m not that good, it’s just a hobby. Megan is really talented though. She has painted some beautiful works in Mykonos.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a balance of the best of both worlds. Corporate and creative.”

“We’ll see. Right now, I’m just trying to bag a trainee law contract.” I take a sip of wine. “So, tell me your story, Tristan. You said you work in property?”

His jaw flexes. “I buy and sell property with two mates of mine. One’s a full-time developer.”