The Art of Love (22 page)

Trent gives me a warm smile. “Sue, you look lovely. I’m sorry I’m so late. Are you ready to go?” He holds out his hand to help me from my chair.

Trent’s hand is warm and soft against mine. He has rich man’s hands, ones that have never done a rugged day’s work in his life. I wonder if mine feel dry and calloused to him. He’s probably used to dating women who always have perfect manicures from hours of grooming at some exclusive spa. I get to my feet and then turn back to look at Linda. “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I say as cover for our interrupted conversation. “Just keep an eye on it. Boys get into stuff like that all the time.”

Linda gives me a thin, somewhat questioning smile.

“What was that all about?” Trent asks as he guides me toward his private parking spot just outside the hotel’s main entrance.

“Oh, nothing.” I’m vague. “I guess there are a lot of challenges to being a single mom raising a teenage boy.”

“I’m sure there are.” Trent nods, and I can’t tell for certain, but it looks like he’s a bit relieved.

Chapter 23

Trent’s car is nice. I’m not a big car person, and I can’t even tell what brand of car it is, but I do know from the fancy interior and leather seats that it’s expensive. He gets my door for me, which I appreciate, but most guys will get the door for you the first time they take you somewhere. If the gesture lasts to the third date, or even to the end of the first date, it’s always a surprise.

As we pull up to the valet service outside of K2, all the valets are busy helping other people. Trent lets out a sigh. “I hate how they never have enough people to cover these things.” He waits another thirty seconds before laying on the horn. This earns him dirty looks from the patrons who got there ahead of us but also brings a valet over on the double. As we exit the car and Trent takes my arm to lead me inside, he whispers in my ear, “Like that guy deserves a tip.”

I think there should be a law that you cannot eat at a restaurant until you’ve worked in one for at least six months. I am continually amazed how rude and entitled people can become just for the simple act of paying someone else to make their food. One of my first jobs was working at a fast food restaurant, and I was always stunned at how demanding people were even though they were just coughing up ninety-nine cents for a mad cow–riddled cheeseburger. Kids my own age who I went to school with felt I was beneath them because I was on the other side of the counter actually working. I could tell from Trent’s total impatience at having to wait a whole forty-five seconds to have someone else park his car that he’s never done a day’s work in his life where he had to get his hands dirty. Once we are well and truly dating, I’ll have to have a serious talk with him on the proper way to treat people in the service industries.

For some reason, when Trent invited me out for the evening, I imagined we would go to dinner first then head to the wine tasting after, but that doesn’t seem to be what he has in mind. When I asked him on the way over if we were going to stop for food, he said in a very surprised voice, “What? Didn’t you eat at Bouche?” He, apparently, had a few sandwiches sent up to his office when he realized he was running late. “I’m sure there’ll be some food there,” he told me as we pulled up to K2, as if warm cheese on stale crackers is a reasonable substitute for dinner.

I have to admit, K2 is pretty swank. There are giant crystal chandeliers hanging from an open-ductwork, industrial-style ceiling. Big velvet curtains have been draped everywhere to give the impression of room separation making large gathering places and small, intimate alcoves. The place is jammed full of beautiful people swilling wine and laughing in a wide, open-mouthed way as if they’re all so carefree and madcap that they can’t contain their amusement. It’s a little startling to hear so many trumpet calls of mirth in the same room, but I guess this affectation is in vogue. To me it feels like too many people trying too hard to be cast as extras for the remake of
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.

I assume we’re going to start with the white and taste our way through the reds, but things aren’t that organized. Trent snags two glasses of white from a passing waiter, hands me one, and says, “Come on, let’s mingle.”

I don’t even know what kind of wine I’m sipping. From its buttery taste, I assume it’s a chardonnay. Not my favorite, but not the worst thing that’s ever been poured from a bottle. I tag after Trent, who seems determined to case the room for friends and casual acquaintances, many of whom are fawning women that make no pretense about their interest in my date.

Trent starts out by introducing me to several men in suits. They’re all in their late twenties or early thirties and all a little too drunk and a bit keyed up to be pleasant to be around. From the way they aggressively shake my hand, I assume they’re lawyers or investment bankers or something. There’s a lot of checking me out and waggling their eyebrows in Trent’s direction. I feel appraised like a cow at a farmer’s auction. There’s definitely a lascivious feel about their attention, as if I’m on the other side of the peepshow glass. None of them actually have anything to say to me personally after the introductions, and I get the feeling they don’t want to hear from the little girlie even if I could think of something to say on my own. In their minds, my presence is strictly decorative.

Just standing there while Trent blabs doesn’t leave me much to do, so I finish my wine and begin scanning the room for another glass. Waiters with full and empty trays cut through the crowd, but it’s not exactly easy for me to get any of their attentions. Finally, I flag one down. He’s got a tray of pinot noir. Not exactly what I would customarily choose after a chardonnay, but I accept a glass anyway. He looks familiar, and I ask him if we know each other.

After a bit of back and forth, we figure out that he worked the Chandra Lake reception. “That was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he tells me. After a moment of distributing wine to a few more patrons, he turns back to me. “So, do you think it’s true that the chef purposely screwed up the reception because she’s been carrying a grudge against the bride since high school?”

I feel my face getting hot. “No,” I assure him. “That is not true. I know the chef personally, and that’s definitely not true.”

“Are there any openings over at Bouche, do you think?” he asks.

I’m about to tell him that I’m not sure, but I can take his number and find out, when I feel Trent at my arm. “There you are,” he says with a tight smile. “I was wondering where you got off to.” I was only standing four feet from where he was standing, so his statement doesn’t make much sense. Still, he guides me to a different part of the room, and the waiter is back to handing out drinks. “Don’t mingle with the staff,” Trent says in a low voice with a bit of a hiss. “I know you work in a kitchen and everything, but having you chat with the busboys makes me look bad.”

As soon as he has decidedly separated me from my conversation with the help, Trent leaves me on my own again to talk to a group of three couples all in their fifties who could be a walking advertisement for discreet plastic surgery. He doesn’t feel compelled to introduce me this time. I am so not good at starting conversations with random strangers in a crowd, so I’m left standing by myself for ten minutes, feeling like a bit of an idiot.

I turn my attentions back to the wine. The pinot isn’t exactly rancid but definitely not the caliber of wine I would expect from a trendy place like K2, which even makes a big deal about its vodka selection. This pinot is more of a wine you wouldn’t feel bad using to make sangria on the back porch during a hot summer day.

“Do you like the wine?” I hear someone ask.

Turning around, I see a handsome man in his mid-thirties. He’s got black hair with just a hint of snow at each temple, making him look a bit like one of those black-feathered birds with a snow drop of white on each wing. “Were you talking to me?” I ask, unsure if I am about to butt in on a conversation.

“Yes.” He smiles. “I was wondering if you like the pinot.”

He’s in a suit and seems to actually be a guest at the soiree rather than staff, so I figure Trent won’t get bent out of shape if I talk to him. “It’s a bit of a Jacuzzi wine,” I confide in him wrinkling my nose a little.

This makes the man smile. “What’s a Jacuzzi wine?”

“Oh, you know.” I feel mildly embarrassed by his attention. “If you spill a bit while you’re in the Jacuzzi, you don’t worry about it.”

This assessment of the pinot delights the man, and he has a brief chuckle about it. “That’s a good one,” he tells me. “I’m going to have to tell that to my father.”

“Does your father enjoy wine tasting?” I feel free to keep talking, seeing that the guy seems amiable.

“He should. He’s been making it for the last thirty plus years.”

I have a sudden stomach-dropping feeling. “You’re a vintner, too?” I ask.

He gives me a good-natured grin. “You’re drinking our label.” He gestures toward my glass.

Oh, God. I’ve just told the sponsor of the evening that I think his wine isn’t good enough to fill a hot tub. That can’t be good. “I’m so sorry,” I blurt. “I really hope I didn’t insult you.” Trent will probably kill me if he finds out what I’ve just done.

“Don’t worry about it,” the black-haired man says. “The pinot is crap, but half the people here don’t know the difference. Slap a fancy label and a good name on a bottle of expired grape juice, and this crowd would give it a rave review.”

He seems open to criticism, so I venture, “If you know it’s bad, then why do you bottle it?”

“Money,” he says, simply enough. “We do put out a few good bottles every year, but that’s not enough to support a family business, so we supplement with the cheap stuff and some fancy marketing.” Tilting his head slightly to the side, he says, “I’m Allen, by the way.”

“Sue,” I reply. We shake hands. His shake is firm, but he doesn’t crush my hand in a show of aggression like some guys do. There are a few calluses on his palms, too, so it’s obvious he’s worked a harvest or two in his lifetime.

“So what brings you to an event like this?” he wonders.

“My boss asked me to go. He only asked me this morning, so maybe his date canceled on him or something,” I find myself saying, even though it never occurred to me until this moment.

“I take it you two aren’t involved then?” he asks.

Am I involved with Trent? That’s a good question. Even though we’re out on our first date, it doesn’t exactly feel like we’re on a “date” or anything. I finally decide on, “Not really.”

Allen nods his head. “That’s what I figured.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if you were my date, I wouldn’t leave you standing by yourself all night,” he says with a hint of shyness. “I’d take better care of you.”

He’s flirting with me! At first, I thought he was just being friendly out of good manners or something, but he’s definitely flirting with me. “Oh.” I feel flushed, and it’s not just because of the wine. “I… um… well…”

He gives me another grin. “Was I being too forward? I’m sorry if that came off as kind of cheesy.”

“No, not at all,” I assure him. “It came off as nice.” Then, for whatever reason, I feel compelled to tell him, “But I think I should warn you, I’m an interloper at this event.”

“What do you mean?” He looks around. “Did you sneak in through the kitchen or something?”

“Not exactly,” I laugh. “But I’m not a socialite or anything. I’m the temporary chef de cuisine over at Bouche.”

His eyes light up. “You work at Bouche? You’re the chef there?”

“Um… yes.” I’m surprised by his obvious excitement. “Temporarily.”

“I had dinner there two weeks ago, and it was amazing.” He beams.

“Oh really.” I’m tingly all over with this unexpected compliment. “What did you have?”

I feel a warm hand slide around my waist, and I turn my head to see Trent with a very amorous expression on his face. “There you are.” He turns his attentions to Allen. “If I stop paying attention to her for one moment, she slips off to flirt with some random guy.”

I’m a little surprised by this sudden change of behavior, and I even manage to blurt out, “What are you talking about?”

But then, Trent is nuzzling my neck, and he whispers, “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”

“Nice meeting you, Allen,” is all I can manage to call over my shoulder as Trent steers me through the crowd.

“You’re quite the little flirt, aren’t you?” Trent chastises me as we go along, but there’s no heat behind his comment.

“Not really,” I reply. “He was just being nice because I was standing there by myself.” This is meant to be a criticism of Trent, but he doesn’t pick up on it. Mostly because he’s a little out of it. Either he’s chugged a bottle or two of wine in the twenty minutes we’ve been apart, or he’s snorted something up his nose because for some reason, he looks a little blurry. I can’t tell for sure without prying his drooping eyelids open, but his one pupil might actually be a little bit bigger than the other. What did the plastic surgery couples give him? I shake him a little by the shoulder and ask, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he says in a brusque voice, breaking my grasp on his jacket. “I just don’t like you throwing yourself at other guys right in front of me.”

This is unjustified, and I want to tell him so, but I’m more concerned about whether he’s steady on his feet and if I can manage to drive his fancy, stick-shift car. “What did you want to show me?” I say, a bit absentmindedly as I try to figure out what the hell Trent is on and how he managed to get on it.

“This,” he says, pulling a velvet curtain aside and sweeping me into the small alcove made by the hanging fabric. His lips are instantly pressing against mine.