Faith is a Secret Not a Promise

Chapter 8 - Dining with the Devil

Oliver

I'm rushing from my apartment and navigating the Underground with my life's worth of experience, all because I am late. Again.

I get off the tube at my stop and step into the streets of Central London. Blending into the crowd seamlessly, taking purposeful strides and bypassing the obnoxiously slow walkers and tourists. I begin to approach the address sent to me and spot the restaurant among the many.

I briskly close the distance, analysing the exterior and make the conscious decision that it is way too fancy for my usual taste. It is Central London after all, it's full of over-priced crap.

I walk through the double glass doors and up to the receptionist tentatively, telling him the name of my party. He kindly guides me to the table with ease and hands me the extensive menu, which I accept graciously.

I glance at the table of who I can immediately tell are unbearable snobs, but I gratefully make eye-contact with Mrs Briggs who offers me a welcoming smile.

I greet them all with a friendly smile and introduce myself, which Mrs Briggs helps me out with.  "Hello Oliver, you finally made it."

I laugh nervously, "Yeah, sorry if I'm a little late, I hope I didn't keep you all from waiting." To which they all respond with a genuine tone of forgiveness.

I go to take my seat, seeing as it's the only empty one left. 'Hold on, I though there were only meant to be four of us...' , I wonder as I look up and meet the eyes of the exact same blue I saw yesterday. And he's sitting right next to the last empty seat. Brilliant...

I move my eyeline quickly from Michael to the direction of my seat and sit down with what a hope is without a hint of hesitation or nerves, though I am slightly comforted in the fact that he seems surprised to see me too. His eyes widening the milimeters that they did, missed by everyone else on the table, though I could tell it was a crack in his stone exterior.

I silently curse my worst luck in the world and pray that I won't have to talk to him throughout this lunch, though I'm highly beginning to doubt that.

Especially when Mrs Briggs addresses Michael saying, "Michael you remember Oliver don't you? The student you met in my office from the day of your lecture." She talks to him kindly from across the table and I can't stop myself from wondering why she likes him so much. Or anyone while we're on that subject, seeing how the other two men seem so infatuated with what he has to say next.

"Yes I do. He's quite a memorable person", he remarks, sipping his drink as if he hadn't just said something so alarmingly weird.

He glances at me sideways with nothing but that infamously stoic expression. One which I try to reciprocate but I've failed at miserably as his lips settle into a knowing smirk.

This is going to be a long fucking meal...

______

The first hour goes by relatively smoothly, much to my surprise. The five of us converse easily in topics that are reasonably interesting enough that it's able to disteact me from the heat radiating beside me, burning my skin. It doesn't help how close he's sitting, seemingly much closer than he needs to be looking at the space on our exessively large table in this overly-fancy restaurant.

Every so often, his arm will brush mine as we ate, or as he would reach for his drink. Even his knee would graze mine, and I'm constantly torn between ripping mine away or letting him touch my ever so silightly. Proving to him that he doesn't effect me one bit. Meanwhile, the skin which he touches erupts into thousands of sparks beneath my skin.

We are currently enjoying our drinks when Mrs Briggs pulls out some papers from her handbag and passing to the two men, which I'm increasingly surprised she hasn't snapped at yet for being insufferably arrogant and snobbish.

"This is some work of Oliver's that you can look over quickly now. And I'm sure you'll agree how talented he really is", Mrs Briggs remarks, which only makes me smile nervously, hating the sudden direct attention from the table. The two men turn quiet as their eyes gloss over the sheets of paper, never giving too much away from their expressions as I try to decipher what they could possibly be thinking.

Mrs Briggs tries to calm my nerves by holding my attention with an encouraging look, silently telling me not to look like a complete wreck of nerves. I tilt my chin slightly higher and allow them time to keep reading. This composure is maintained to perfection until one of the men pass some of the papers to Michael.

I suck in a silent breath, darting my eyes to the side with concerend eyebrows to look at him as he begins to read.

I can decipher even less from him as he flicks through some pages. His eyes search the words intently, as if looking for something deeper behind them. It's scrutinizing. And it's driving me up the fucking wall!

He finally shifts his gaze onto me, still holding that scrutiny. I feel seconds away from crumbling. He feels so close to me.

"You wrote these?" He asks abruptly.

I swallow, "Yeah, of course I did", curious as to why he's questioning me.

He looks back down at the pages for some seconds as if to confirm and cosider my answer. He eyes me one last time, not smiling, but also not angry. "It's not terrible."

Relief engulfs me like a tsunami. I press my lips together to conceal what would've been the biggest smile I've ever given to a man I am so determined to hate. "Thank you."

I turn towards Mrs Briggs infront of me, witnessing her not-so-hidden smirk thats tells me exactly what she's thinking, 'I told you so'. Something I couldn't argue with and couldn't help but return the smile in silent thanks for trusting in my talent when I didn't.

"Work with me."

The source of this voice gives me whiplash as I tear my gaze away and turn towards Michael.