roof slowly reclines. With the flick of a switch, Bruce Springsteen surrounds us.
“Gotta love Bruce,” he grins at me and eases the car out of the parking space, and up the steep ramp where we pause for the barrier.
Then we’re out into the bright Seattle May morning. I reach into the glove box and retrieve the baseball caps. The Mariners. He likes baseball? I pass him a cap, and he puts it on. I pass my ponytail through the back of mine and pull the peak down low.
People stare at us as we drive through the streets. For a moment, I think it’s at him… and then a very paranoid part thinks everyone is looking at me because they know what I’ve been doing during the last twelve hours, but finally, I realize it’s the car. Christian seems oblivious, lost in thought.
The traffic is light and we’re soon on the I-5 heading south, the wind sweeping over our heads. Bruce is singing about being on fire and his desire. How apt. I flush as I listen to the words. Christian glances at me. He’s got his Ray-Bans on so I can’t see what he’s thinking. His mouth twitches slightly, and he reaches across and places his hand on my knee, squeezing gently. My breath hitches.
“Hungry?” he asks.
Not for food.
“Not particularly.”
His mouth tightens into that hard line.
“You must eat, Anastasia,” he chides. “I know a great place near Olympia. We’ll stop there.” He squeezes my knee again, and then returns his hand to the steering wheel as he puts his foot down on the gas. I’m pressed into the back of my seat. Boy this car can move.
The restaurant is small and intimate, a wooden chalet in the middle of a forest. The décor is rustic: random chairs and tables with gingham tablecloths, wild flowers in little vases. Cuisine Sauvage, it boasts above the door.
“I’ve not been here for a while. We don’t get a choice – they cook whatever they’ve caught or gathered.” He raises his eyebrows in mock horror, and I ha一ve to laugh. The waitress takes our drinks order. She flushes when she sees Christian, a一voiding
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