Page 72 of Sinful Bride

He leads us to a table near the back. Elena walks gracefully just ahead of me as I rest my hand on her bare back, just above the low-cut back of her rose-colored gown. I’ve realized she favors this style—cut higher on the neckline and low in the back. It feels like an oddly intimate thing to know about a woman I still haven’t slept with.

She looks perfect here, like she belongs effortlessly. I pull out her chair, still feeling awkward. She sits, and I take the seat across from her. The host I made the reservation with said something about “chef’s choice,” and I realize that there aren’t going to be menus available. Elena looks perfectly at ease with that.

"Have you been here before?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.

"Once," she says. "With my father." She’s looking at me with a hint of curiosity in her expression, as if she doesn’t understand quite why I’m doing this.

The server appears a moment later. "Good evening. Can I start you with something to drink?"

Elena glances at me. “I recommend we do their wine pairing,” she says. “They’ll know what will go best with the dishes.”

“Sure,” I agree quickly. I know white goes with seafood and red goes with beef… I think. That’s as far as I’ve ever gotten. I don’t even like wine, really.

But I remember her sipping a Michelob Ultra last night, without complaining, and I smile. “That sounds excellent.”

"The tasting menu is excellent here," Elena says quietly. "I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

She’s pretending that I knew what I was doing when I made the reservation, that I had any idea what all of this was about. She’s trying to make me feel less like an idiot, and I should be grateful. Instead, I feel humiliated.

"That sounds good," I manage.

When the server returns with the wine, Elena gracefully accepts her glass, and then the server disappears again to bring us the first course. I take a drink of the wine. It's good, I think, but I’d rather have a whiskey or a beer any day.

"This was thoughtful of you," Elena says, breaking the silence. "Making these arrangements."

"I wanted to do something you'd enjoy."

"I do enjoy it." She takes a sip of her wine. "But you don't have to pretend to be someone you're not, Declan."

The words sting. "I'm not pretending."

"Aren't you?" Her voice is surprisingly gentle as she looks at me over the rim of her glass. "You're uncomfortable here. I can see it."

"I'm fine."

"You're not." She sets her glass down. "That's okay, Declan. You don't have to be comfortable in my world for me to appreciate the effort."

I don't know what to say to that. I have no idea how to explain that I'm trying to show her I can be what she needs, even if it means being uncomfortable and pretending.

The first course arrives shortly after. It looks sort of like chicken on a white plate, garnished with herbs I don't recognize. The server explains what it is, but I'm too focused on not looking like an idiot to really listen.

I take a bite. It's good. Interesting. But I have no idea what I'm eating. Elena watches me, her expression unreadable. "What do you think?"

"It's good."

Her mouth twitches. "You have no idea what it is, do you?"

I almost laugh. She doesn’t look like she’s making fun of me—it almost seems like we’re in on a private joke together, which is much more pleasant than I would have thought. "Not a clue,” I admit.

"It's duck thigh with yuzu and fennel." She takes a bite of her own. "The yuzu adds a citrus note that balances the richness of the meat. It’s very good."

"Right." I take another bite, trying to taste what she's describing. "Yuzu."

"It's a Japanese citrus fruit."

"Of course it is."

The corner of her mouth twitches again, almost becoming a smile. "You really didn't have to do this, you know. Take me somewhere like this."