I let my arms flop to my sides, visibly deflating. I gave Peters an awkward grin, feeling silly for going all Vogue for the benefit of my boyfriend—er, fiancé—who wasn’t even there. I wanted to crawl under a rock, but offered the man who was there a greeting instead. “Oh, hi, Peters.”
He stood at the curb, trying not to crack a smile at my ridiculous Cindy Crawford impersonation as he offered, “Mr. Fields wished for me to express his apologies for being detained.” Peters went on to tell me that Devin would meet me at the restaurant, which was only a short distance from Howell House up in midtown. I guessed he was putting in another late night at the office.
On our anniversary. Two days after our engagement.
Sure enough and true to his word, however, he was already at Ocean when I walked through the door. He’d been sitting at a small square table, but stood and waved me over before I even had to give the hostess his name.
I appraised the sight of him, so handsome and commanding such a presence—even out of the office—and was slightly staggered at the thought that such a dynamic man wanted to marry me.
I reached the table, kissed him hello and gave a little twirl, showing off the handiwork of the past two hours.
“Well, don’t you look pretty tonight.”
Ummm... Pretty?
Was he serious? I was well aware that Devin Fields was a man who never gave up control, but I truly thought that the sight of his fiancée all decked out would at least, oh, I don’t know, take his fucking breath away?
But really. What was I going to do? Start our romantic evening off with a big, stupid fight over his flattering remark? Yeah, that would make a ton of sense. So, instead of reaming him out for not offering a bigger compliment, I got over myself, smiled, and sat down across from him. Out of pure habit, I futzed with my silverware, putting all the pieces at exact right angles to the edge of the table, making sure my place setting was perfectly centered in front of me. I hadn’t even realized I’d done it until I placed the napkin across my lap. The life of a borderline obsessive-compulsive. What can I tell you.
Devin’s eyes scanned the room until he caught our waiter’s attention. With an almost imperceptible nod, he summoned the man to our table. “I ordered us the spicy tuna tartare to start. Would you like some wine? Here. See what you think of this.” He held out his half-emptied glass so I could try a sip of the chardonnay. I knew it would most assuredly be a very expensive vintage, with just the right tannins and bouquet and probably lots of other winey adjectives that I had absolutely no clue about. I took a small drink, thinking that it tasted lovely, but that the true appreciation of it was lost on me. But what the heck. It tasted good.
“Mmm. Yes. This will be great, thanks.”
The waiter appeared at my side presenting menus as Devin pointed to his glass and held up two fingers, silently commanding a round of drinks. The waiter nodded his head in acknowledgment and signaled the order to another server before launching into the night’s specials.
I was only half-registering the descriptions of the chef’s offerings for the evening, my mouth already watering for Ocean’s macadamia-nut-encrusted Chilean sea bass. It was only my third visit to this particular restaurant, but I knew that that dish was excellent.
Our first waiter left us as the second server appeared with our glasses of wine, and Devin held his out to me for a toast. “To my beautiful fiancée,” he started, as I smiled into his handsome face, “and the past two, wonderful, tumultuous years!”
That made me laugh until he added seriously, “May we have many, many more.”
His eyes bored unflinchingly into mine, and I was struck yet again that this amazing man across the table actually wanted to make me his wife.
Jesus. His wife! The word itself was so foreign to me, a term reserved for women who weren’t quite so immature. I was twenty-six years old, but most days, at least in my mind, I still felt perpetually sixteen. Weren’t there laws in the state of New York about marrying minors?
While glancing over the menu, I started to smile to myself. Devin must have noticed because he asked, “What’s going on in that nonstop brain of yours, over there grinning all cat-who-ate-the-canary?”
I gave a small chuckle and replied, “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about all the extra work you’ve just piled into my lap.”
Devin had put on his reading glasses, which always managed to make him look like a pinup from a Hot Studs of the Ivy League calendar. If it weren’t for the wisps of grey at his temples, he’d spend his life in danger of being mistaken for a college student instead of the powerful media mogul that he aspired to be. I knew it wasn’t true, but he was just ambitious enough to be entirely capable of dying the few strands over his ears into a distinguished grey, just to be taken more seriously.