Gold (BOOK 3) || PRN

IX. Chipmunk and Songbird

"And for the lady?"

The dim lighting is meant to craft the perfect romantic ambience for a pair of lovers. Beautiful aromas seep out of the kitchen and plates carried by waiters passing by. Built from the ground up by a group of people claimed to be the finest chef's the city has to offer, five minutes into the date is precisely when I know I'd rather be at home making popcorn as Prince complains that nothing good is on HBO tonight.

His name is Arnold, though I've heard some call him Arnie, and he's a banker. Although, I was originally introduced to him by his father, a record executive at Virgin. The first blonde man I've ever sat down at a dinner table with. I'm not one to fawn over blondes, only a select few catching my attention, when gingers and brunettes exist. I met him a charity event focusing on children suffering from leukemia. He drowned me in compliments as she showcased how big his heart is with the third biggest donation of the night, I made the second and an unknown donor made the first. His face is average but his reputation is pristine.

I look around the menu one more time to assure that I knew exactly what I wanted. "I'll have the asparagus salad, please. No beets." The waitress standing over me may be nodding but I need her to recognize how dire it is that she listens to my request. "I mean no beets. None," I reiterate. "I'm severely allergic."

Short and surface level conversation floats between us in the beginning. Airy, lighthearted, something to kill time as we wait for food. Conservative views seep through his light rant about fracking. Not too keen on politics but even more against many ways of President Reagan than most in my tax bracket, I guide the conversation back to a realm I am most interested in. My biggest break comes when a woman three tables over begs Ike to allow me to autograph a napkin. 

Arnold's body falls into a pose as he'a watching me with a smile of amazement. "Wow," he gawks.

"Was that rude? I'm sorry. I know guys don't like when I sign autographs on dates—"

He shakes his head, waving his hands in disagreement. "Oh, no! I like it. I'd even say it's sexy." I brush my bangs out of my eyes as it rests on my forehead. It is flattering to hear a guy talk that way about me to my actual face.

My hands fold in front of me. The soft linen of the specially decorated table we occupy is warm. This is the moment I notice his piercing evergreen eyes. As attractive as the sight is, his attention bouncing back and forth between me and elsewhere is what frustrates me.

"What attracted you to this place?" The off-put curiosity in my voice can only be spotted by those who know me well. Arnold is taking so long to answer that my mind wanders elsewhere.

I wonder if Prince is still at my house. If he is, what is doing? The chances of him going through my things are high. A full-on, completely unattached woman like myself doesn't make any true efforts in hiding all of the toys I've accumulated over the years. I know he's found them, much like I know he'd go through my every drawer. Some of his motivation stemming from genuine curiosity, others pieces birthed by his disdain for the idea of me having a male partner he thinks he'd actually have to compete with.

The deeper into it I think, the worse my thoughts get.

I start to wonder what would happen if I went home and had sex with him. That becomes the point where I must come back to reality.

Arnold's index finger taps against the side of the table in what I can easily deem as the most annoying way possible. "My first choice was your sister's restaurant," he chuckles. "But I didn't want to make it weird. Although, I heard she's got a great place on her hands!"