Rooted (Pagano Family #3)(25)
“Jesus.”
“I know, right?”
Theo turned to Jordan. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken until his son had answered him. Now Jordan was grinning at him with something like pride. “When she tried it on, I knew she had to wear it tonight. You know, for you.”
They were across the room from Carmen and speaking quietly. Hoping she couldn’t hear their muttered exchange, and unable to resist, Theo asked, “She bought it to wear for me?”
“Pfft. Dad. Not that she knows—or not that she’ll admit, anyway. She’s a cagey one.”
His twenty-year-old gay son was better versed in the female mind than he was. Sheesh.
It was becoming awkward, their standing in a far corner and not greeting Carmen, so Theo walked over. She smiled as he approached. In her high heels, she was as tall as he was. Six-two.
“You look…breathtaking.”
For a flash of a moment, her responding expression was open and young, vulnerable. Pleased. Then it formed itself into something more skeptical, but still warm. “Thanks. You clean up nice, too. All three of you.”
Eli asked, “Are we ready to go?” His arm was around Rosa. They both looked pleased about that.
Carmen turned back to Theo. “Where are we going, exactly?”
“To a place I’ve heard about. Great reviews. Had to name drop to get a reservation. La Chanteuse. It’s like an old-style nightclub, jazz vibe. Dinner, music, dancing. Apparently, they do it all up so Duke Ellington would have felt right at home. Sound good?”
“I don’t dance.”
Rosa sighed dramatically. “Carmen. You do, too, you liar.” She looked at Theo. “She did dance lessons for like a thousand years when she was a kid. There’s pictures all over the place of her in her little tap shoes or her tutus or whatever.”
Carmen gave her sister a deadly look. “I didn’t say I can’t dance. I said I don’t dance.” She faced Theo again. “But it’s fine. Just setting the expectation. I don’t dance. I’m not good with a partner. I tend to lead.”
At that, Theo laughed. “Why am I not surprised? Well, if you change your mind, I’m willing to tangle with you for the lead in a tango or two.”
oOo
La Chanteuse came as advertised. Crossing over the threshold was like crossing back through decades of time. The staff was dressed in period clothes. The décor was straight from the Jazz Age—lush and gilt, art deco with a patina of age. It appeared to have been designed to look like a club built in the Twenties and then worn by use. The lights were low, and tables lit by candles in colored glass ringed a large, gleaming dance floor—no dancers just yet, and no live music yet, either. But on one side, a full orchestra was set up in the period style, and front and center stood an old-style microphone, its head massive and ideal for a torch singer to clutch passionately in mid wail. The music would be live soon enough.
Carmen and Jordan both stopped dead as they were all being led to their table by a hostess wearing a slinky, satin dress, her hair sleekly coiffed.
“Wow.” Carmen’s eyes scanned the whole room.
Jordan was much more effusive. “Is this the best thing ever, or is this the best thing ever?!”
Theo reached out and, for the first time that evening, touched Carmen, his hand curling around her arm. “Acceptable?”
When she turned to him, she was smiling completely. “I might even take you up on that tango.”
“I embellished about the tango. I can dance, but not that. Sorry.”
She rolled her eyes. “Men. All talk.” But her smile remained sincere. Theo tamped down the urge to move his hand from her arm to her face.
“Come on. The food’s supposed to be good, too.”
oOo
The food was good, a nice blend of French and American cuisine. Jordan and Carmen split a bottle of wine. Eli had beer. Rosa kept to Shirley Temples, and Theo had his usual bourbon. He was drinking more than usual since he’d been in France, more than he had since the early months after Maggie’s death, while he was writing Orchids. He’d started to slide down a rocky slope back then, but had caught himself before anyone but he knew he’d been slipping.
He wasn’t near that slope now, but he was definitely drinking more. Probably a feature of eating out most of the time, and of writing about Maggie again. Trying to, anyway. But it was good he was aware of it—that awareness should keep him from sliding.
The band had started playing right before their entrees arrived. At first, they played some standards, just background music by which the crowd—the tables were full—could dine. After about thirty minutes or so, a lovely young woman in full period dress slunk to the big microphone and began to sing. She had a voice like Lena Horne. Looked like her, too.
When the waiter came around to ask about their dessert order, Carmen declined and ordered a second bottle of wine instead. Theo smiled. He liked her with some wine in her. The others ordered sweets, but Theo stuck to his bourbon, in allegiance with Carmen.
While the youngsters were eating their crèmes br?lées, Miss Lena’s doppelg?nger crooned the first notes of ‘Stormy Weather,’ and Theo leaned over and put his lips to Carmen’s ear. Christ. She was wearing a perfume that must have been pure pheromones. She’d been stingy with the scent, not bathing herself in it, so he hadn’t picked it up until he’d gotten this close to her—which was, hands down, the absolutely best way to smell perfume. His cock charged into his pants leg, and for a second he reconsidered the question he was about to ask. He might need to stay seated. Then he went for it anyway. He was wearing a suit; the jacket would probably be sufficient camouflage.