hatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list.”
“Certainly, sir.” The waiter, taken aback by Christian’s
cool, calm efficiency, scuttles off. Christian places his
Blackberry on the table. Jeez, don’t I get a choice?
“And if I don’t like steak?”
He sighs. “Don’t start, Anastasia.”
“I am not a child, Christian.”
“Well, stop acting like one.”
It’s as if he’s slapped me. I blink at him. So this is how
it will be, an agitated, fraught conversation, albeit in a very
romantic setting but certainly no hearts and flowers.
“I’m a child because I don’t like steak?” I mutter trying
to conceal my hurt.
“For deliberately making me jealous. It’s a childish
thing to do. Ha一ve you no regard for your friend’s feelings,
leading him on like that?” Christian presses his lips together
in a thin line and scowls as the waiter returns with the wine
list.
I blush—I hadn’t thought of that. Poor José—I
certainly don’t want to encourage him. Suddenly, I’m
mortified. Christian has a point; it was a thoughtless thing
to do. He glances at the wine list.
“Would you like to choose the wine?” he asks, raising
his eyebrows at me expectantly, arrogance personified. He
knows I know nothing about wine.
“You choose,” I answer, sullen but chastened.
“Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please.”
“Er . . . we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir.”
“A bottle then,” Christian snaps.
“Sir.” He retreats, subdued, and I don’t blame him. I
frown at Fifty. What’s eating him? Oh, me probably, and
somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddess
rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She’s been asleep for
rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She’s been asleep for
a while.
“You’re very grumpy.”
He gazes at me impassively. “I wonder why that is?”
“Well, it’s good to set the right tone for an intimate and
honest discussion about the future, wouldn’t you say?” I
smile at him sweetly.
His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost
reluctantly, his lips lift, and I know he’s trying to stifle his
sm
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