Page 50 of Connor's Claim

“We’re ordering à la carte. The lady will have a Caeser salad, hold the dressing, and I’ll have the best cut of steak this place can scavenge. Rare.”

I squinted. No dressing on that salad meant just lettuce and croutons. I might not have wanted a big meal, but an edible one would help create the illusion that I was eating.

“Actually, I’d like—” I started.

Piers cut me a flat stare. It told me to stop. It screamed danger and reminded me so much of my father that I closed my mouth and dropped my gaze to the table.

With a murmur, the waiter left us. I made no attempt to speak, stuck facing Piers’ direction and with nothing but the little vase on the table to focus on. In a way, it suited me. I didn’t have sparkling conversation in me. I was vacant. Empty.

Bereft.

The meal arrived. I picked at my dry lettuce and crunched a crouton. The chef had thankfully dusted parmesan over the dish, and I angled my lettuce to scoop up a piece.

“Cheese is mostly fat,” Piers commented.

I glanced up. He sawed through his steak, blood pooling on his plate.

“Without the Caeser dressing, this meal is unpalatable,” I answered.

I had the patience of a saint, but it was wearing thin. He’d taken my phone, ordered without asking me what I’d like, and been an overall jerk. I wouldn’t say any of that, as much as I wanted.

“You’re overweight so need to learn self-control,” he continued.

I exhaled, a rush of anger mixing with hurt. With breathtaking arrogance and a lack of awareness, Piers started on a diatribe about his nutrition and exercise routine.

Setting down my cutlery, I abandoned the terrible meal and folded my arms, waiting for the moment he realised I didn’t give a shit. He talked and ate, finishing his steak and vegetables, leaving the potatoes, and not once did he register my hostility.

The waiter took our plates, returning with a smaller menu. “Would sir or madam care to be tempted by the dessert menu?”

“No,” Piers said.

“Yes, madam would,” I corrected, taking the elegantly printed menu and running a finger down it. “The cheesecake, please.”

“Very good.”

He left us, and I gazed back at Piers, my expression neutral, though his was twisted in disgust.

“You won’t eat that,” he dictated.

“I told you my meal was less than satisfactory, so I will.”

He held my gaze, something ticking over in his that I couldn’t read, then he curled his lip and reached for the wine bottle, emptying the rest into his glass. I didn’t care. I wasn’t a big drinker, and the sooner I’d had a bite or two of my sweet course, I’d ask to leave.

The tinkling chatter of the other diners around us closed in on me. Pressure built. Piers downed his wine and held his gaze on me.

He had small eyes, I noted. Smaller than reasonable for a man his size.

At last, a bowl was set down in front of me. I produced a happy smile with my thanks then took up my fork. The pudding had a honeycomb decoration and fresh raspberries alongside, plus a drizzle of coulis.

With his elbows on the table, Piers tracked the waiter leaving. At the same moment, the people next to us stood to vacate their table, their backs to us as they praised the meal to the host.

“We’re leaving,” Piers told me.

“Excellent.” I angled my fork to slice into the cheesecake.

“On Saturday, you’ll accompany me to a dinner and dance at the Hudson. Wear something that fits you better.”

I stilled. Another date? God, no. “Sorry, I’m not available.”