“He has a couple of times. They don’t know he cheated on me or Dad would probably castrate him. But I think it helps my mom because Grant’s been around so much of our lives and was with Brady when he was taken, so she kind of latches on to that sometimes, I think.”
Presley groans and I understand the sentiment. The few times I’ve talked to Grant since he’s been back haven’t gone well. He tries everything from telling me he wants me back to needing to pass on information, which never amounts to anything, to saying he remembered something Brady said. But it’s all contrived and he’s still the new Grant and I just hold on to Brady’s recommendation to stay away.
“Fuck Grant,” Presley says, coming up behind me and squeezing my shoulders. “But not literally. Because tonight, you have a date with someone way hotter and classier than Grant Douchebag McDaniels.”
“I do,” I grin, a bubble of excitement bursting in my belly. “And if I don’t get out of here, I’m not going to make it.”
I swipe my nude clutch off of the vanity and give myself a final once-over in the mirror. My curves are on display and I can breathe since I went without the Spanx.
“Where are you going?” Presley asks as I turn to the side.
“Ruma.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously? Oh my God, Brynne. That’s the hottest restaurant right now! I was there two weekends ago when my parents were home from Rio and I saw Chris Hemsworth. Not even kidding.”
“I know! I’m way out of my league here. It’s kind of terrifying.”
“Only you would be scared of an invitation like this!” She rolls her eyes and dashes out of the room. She’s back in ten seconds. “Here,” she says, sliding a diamond bracelet on my wrist. “This gives you that extra pop.”
“I’m not wearing this. It’s probably worth more than my car!”
“That’s true. It is. And that’s also why you’ll just take my Mercedes.”
“Pres . . .”
“My best friend is not rolling up to Ruma in her rattle box. No offense.”
“None taken,” I grin. “You’re the best, you know that?”
“I do happen to know that.” She tosses me a wink and we make our way to the kitchen. She plops her keys in my hand. “When you pull up, there’ll be a valet in the front. Just drive up and get out and they’ll handle the rest.”
“Seriously?”
She laughs. “Seriously. Now scoot.”
I head to the garage and unlock the car, the new car scent hitting my nostrils.
I do a quick programming of the address into the navigation and back down the driveway and onto the street, following the British man’s robotic instructions. Presley insists it’s sexier to hear him say it with a foreign accent, but I think it’s just harder to understand.
The night sky is a brilliant spectacle in pinks and oranges and traffic is uncharacteristically light. I try to focus on those things and not the fact that I’m driving off to meet Fenton, a man I barely know—if even that—for dinner. Thinking about him and his chiseled cheekbones and intense eyes will only increase my anxiety.
I rock out to the radio for the hour drive, keeping the panic at bay until I take my final turn into the parking area for Ruma.
The sun is setting behind a line of palm trees as I pull in. My heart races as Presley’s Mercedes slows, coasting into the valet.
Vehicles, all likely worth more than I may ever make in my life, zip through the valet. No one opens their own doors, no one is dressed in less than the best. It’s unnerving.
A man dressed in a suit and tie opens my door. I grab my clutch out of the passenger seat and do a quick peek in the rearview mirror before climbing as gracefully as I can out of the car. Another man meets me with a clipboard, also dressed to the nines, and smiles.
“Reservations, Madam?”
“Yes.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Abbott.”
He tries not to look surprised, but his quick perusal of me from head to toe is obvious. “Can you please clarify?”
“Fenton Abbott.”
I swear his posture straightens as he takes a step away from me. “Right this way, Madam.”
We enter the restaurant through a side entrance. It’s covered with a heavy black awning, shielding us from view. The man in the suit opens the door for me and I step inside Ruma for the very first time.
The lights are dim. Everything is a deep, dark wood with pops of cinnamon and cream and touches of a frosty blue in the decor. Somehow the mixture is exotic and inclusive at the same time.
The entire back wall is lined with floor to ceiling windows that look out across the Pacific Ocean. I could pull up one of the cushioned settees that sit along the walls and watch the waves roll in . . . if Fenton wasn’t waiting on me.
The thought of seeing him again makes me giddy. I scan the room but don’t spot him.
“This way, please,” the maitre d’ says.