He pulled the dress back over my br**sts, deftly securing the fabric into place. Then he reached down and smoothed my hair—attempting to make it look like it did before, even removing a bobby pin and sliding it where it used to be.
He raised his eyebrow at the Batman Band-Aid, and possessively ran his fingers across the Harry Winston bracelet.
It took me several minutes to completely catch my breath, to wrap my head around what had just happened. I shook my head, still in disbelief. “What the hell is wrong with you, Jonathan? Are you insane?”
“No, but you must be. You had the nerve to bring a date here of all places.” He scoffed.
“I didn’t pick this place, but even if I did, how was I supposed to know that your business meeting would be here?”
“The restaurant is called Statham, Claire. I own it. It’s also right down the street from corporate and my picture is in the hallway. There’s always a chance that I could be here.”
“Fine. A major oversight on my part, but that still doesn’t give you the right to interrupt my date.” I spun away from him and walked out of the stall, over to the mirrors.
“Do you like him?” he asked.
No...
“I don’t know yet. I think I need to get to know him better before I come to any conclusions.”
His eyes met mine in the mirror. “You plan on going out with him again?”
“Yes. He seems like someone who wouldn’t give me a childish jealousy f**k in a public restroom.”
He rolled his eyes and walked towards the door. “Get rid of him after dinner. Let me know when you make it home so I can pick you up. We need to talk.”
“And if I don’t feel like talking to you?”
“Then we don’t have to talk.”
Chapter 11
Claire
I wasn’t sure why I called Jonathan to let him know I was at home. A part of me was furious about what he’d done to me in that bathroom, but another part of me—a part I couldn’t explain, was happy that he’d showed up and interrupted my night.
As he steered his Bugatti through the city and past the suburbs, I sat back in my seat and wondered when he was going to start talking. He hadn’t uttered a word since he’d picked me up, and he hadn’t looked over at me once.
Why do I even care? I’m not supposed to like him...
He sped through the sandy lanes of Ocean Beach, way past the familiar common areas that I was used to going to. There were no more lampposts or sparkling sand lights that helped lead the way along the shore. There was nothing but darkness and the pale glow of the moon from above.
After what felt like forever, he pulled in front of a massive wooden house and turned off the car. He stepped out without saying a word, and then he walked over to my side and opened the door.
He reached for my hand and led me up the porch’s steps, pressing a few buttons on a keypad. As his finger tapped the last key, the door slowly opened and he pulled me inside.
My jaw dropped as soon as I stepped forward. The vaulted ceilings were at least fifty feet high and they were made of black glass. There were paintings by Renoir and Amadeo—the originals, gently tucked in their own gilded frames that hung high. The room was filled with earth-toned furniture—soft brown sofas, emerald green chaises, and bronze accent pieces, that all reflected against the windows on the back wall.
This is beautiful...
“Take off your shoes,” he ordered.
I slipped out of my flats and followed him into a kitchen so grand I wasn’t sure if it was real. It reminded me of the royal British kitchens I’d seen in Architectural Digest, the kitchens I would’ve killed to visit someday.
He motioned for me to sit down on one of the silver barstools and then he switched on the stove.
He turned his back to me and began preparing food—never once looking over his shoulder or saying anything to me. He took his time measuring different oils and sautéing meat, shaking his head every few minutes.
While he was chopping vegetables, I looked at my watch and realized an hour had gone by since we’d made it to the house.
“Here.” He turned around and slid me a plate of chicken, potatoes, and salad. “I didn’t see you eat much on your date.”
“Thank you...”
We ate dinner in complete silence; the sound of forks scraping against the plates was the only noise between us. I looked up at him several times, trying to see if he would look back, but he didn’t; he kept his eyes on his food the entire time.
When he saw that my plate was empty, he grabbed it and tossed it into the sink. He put on his jacket and walked to the frosted glass door that was across the room.
“Come here, Claire.” His voice sounded neutral, but there was still a look of coldness in his eyes.
I took my time walking over to him and he wrapped a warm blanket around my shoulders. He opened the door and I realized the Pacific Ocean was only a few feet away.