When we step into the restaurant that evening, Briar’s mouth drops open. She spins a full circle, taking in the room with sparkly eyes. “Oh my God,” she whispers, turning to me. “You picked this out?”
I nod awkwardly.
It took most of the day to find a restaurant secure enough to bring her to. Eventually, hotel security recommended this little gem tucked into a street corner in West Hollywood. Apparently, it’s the number one spot for celebrities who want to eat without being hassled by fans or paparazzi. It’s perfect. The restaurant floor is just one spacious room, without any nooks or crannies for people to hide in. The staff is small and discreet, and the building has its own security and plenty of CCTV cameras.
Although I doubt it’s the video surveillance that has Briar so excited.
The place is beautiful. It’s themed like a Grecian garden. The walls are white stone, decorated with turquoise mosaic tiles and covered in clinging ivy. Lush green ferns and miniature lemon trees surround each table, and the entire place is strewn with fresh flowers, drifting in long garlands from the ceiling and draping over the chairs and floor. The whole place is illuminated by flickering candles in glass lanterns, giving the room a dreamy, soft feel. Tables usually book half a year in advance, but when I mentioned Briar’s name on the phone, a few spots magically became vacated.
Briar slips her hand into mine as the maitre d’ leads us to a couple of tables right in the corner of the restaurant, facing the door. Briar and I sit down at one, and Matt and Kenta take the other, just a few feet away. The position gives us a good outlook over the whole room.
A sommelier appears out of thin air, and Briar smiles up at him. “What are your best sweet wines?”
The man considers. “If madam likes Sauternes, we have some Château d’Yquem from Graves, Bordeaux. Sauvignon blanc, Semillon, and slightly raisined Muscadelle grapes. Incredibly high quality.”
She looks at me, and I shrug. “I’ll have whatever,” I say. I don’t know shit about wine. Briar orders the bottle, and the man drifts off. She leans against my side and looks around the restaurant, smiling.
“You like it?” I check.
I’m kind of worried. I haven’t really dated since I left the force. Every now and then, Kenta and Matt bully me into meeting a girl for drinks, but the poor woman always spends half of the time trying not to stare at my face. I generally call it quits after one beer and just head home. I don’t even remember the last time I took a girl out to dinner.
She looks at me incredulously. “Are you kidding me? This is the nicest place a guy has ever taken me. And you’re not even angling for money.”
“Actually, we all want a raise,” I tell her, and she laughs, picking up my hand to kiss my knuckles.
“As if. You should be paying me to wear this dress.”
I run my eyes over her body. She’s wearing a slinky, glittery number covered in pale pink sequins. The fabric clings to her figure, and the sequins reflect little iridescent specks of light all over her arms and bare neck. I think she’s wearing some kind of body glitter, too, because her skin is shimmering softly under the golden lamps. She looks like the world’s sexiest fairy.
“You look gorgeous,” I tell her, and her smile widens.
God, I love seeing her smile. The first week or so, I don’t think I saw her smile once. It was always the same tight, sardonic smirk. Now she’s beaming at me, eyes sparkling, and it’s tying my stomach into knots.
“You look pretty nice yourself.” She lifts a glittery fingernail and trails it down my Adam’s apple, laughing when I swallow reflexively. “I like you in grey.”
The waiter returns with our wine. As I readjust my chair to give him room, I catch a sudden glimpse of my reflection in the dark window. My good mood dissolves immediately.
You’d think, after five years, I’d get used to seeing my face. But I don’t. Every single time, I get a shock. Tonight, it looks even more horrific than usual. The soft overhead lighting that makes Briar glow like an angel casts shadows over the bumps of my scar, so my whole cheek looks mangled.
I hate this shit.
I don’t think I’m vain. That’s why I never bothered to get it fixed. I don’t usually mind being ugly; I don’t exist in the world to be pretty. I’m not a bloody model.
The issue isn’t the way my face looks. It’s the memories that come with it. People turn and stare at me in the street. They look at the scar when they talk to me. Every day, I see the tiny flicker of revulsion in the eyes of strangers. And I remember.
I scan the room, and my stomach sinks as I see guests from other tables staring. Of course they are. This whole industry is based on looks. I stick out like a sore thumb. I watch an actress I vaguely recognise look me over, her eyes flicking between me and Briar. She picks up her phone and starts texting rapidly.
Crap.
I didn’t even think about this when I picked out the restaurant. Of course, as a celebrity hotspot, it will be full of really important industry people. Who will gossip. A sense of panic rises up in me. I screwed up. Tomorrow, the magazines will probably be splashed with pictures of Briar on a date with some scarred, grizzled giant, and rumours will start flying.
I shift my weight, trying to block the woman’s line of vision with some of the foliage hanging around the table. She leans forwards. From the angle her phone is at, I’m pretty sure she just took a photo of us.
“Why are you trying to hide behind that fern?” Briar’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “It won’t work, you’re much bigger than it.”
I feel heat rushing to my cheeks. “I wasn’t,” I mumble.
“You were.”
I shake my head, looking down at the menu. “Why do they have entrées and appetisers? What’s the difference? Is it a rich people thing?”
“Americans call main dishes entrées. Why are you hiding?”
I frown, thumbing through the gilt-edged pages. “That makes no sense.”
“Glen.”
I sigh, putting down the menu and waving a hand around the restaurant. “You know some of these people?”
She nods. “They’re all pretty big fish. So?”
“So,” I shrug awkwardly. “People talk, right? You might not want to be seen in public with me.”
She laughs. “What, because of the pictures of me kissing Matt? Everyone already thinks I’m a slag. I may as well take advantage of it and snog who I want.”
“It’s not that,” I bluster, “I just—”
Her eyes widen. Emotions cross her face, too quick to count. Anger. Sadness. Sympathy. Hurt. “You just what?” She snaps. “You think that I’m happy to shag you in private, but that I’m too bloody shallow to be seen with you in public? Fuck you, Glen. You think I’m that disgusting?”
I run a hand through my hair. This is going all wrong. “It’s not like that. I just… I know I don’t go with your brand, exactly.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. She straightens, rage flashing in her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not a damn brand. Jesus, I thought you guys were actually starting to look at me like a person!”
I put my hands up. “That’s not what I mean! I just don’t want to do anything that will harm your public image. That’s all.” God, this is so embarrassing.
She narrows her eyes. “You think you’re so hideous that sitting next to you will harm my public image? Who the Hell do you think you are, the Phantom of the fucking Opera?”
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, she curls a manicured hand in my tie and tugs, yanking me down for a kiss.
My body pretty much collapses into hers. She doesn’t bother with any closed-mouth pecking, plunging her tongue straight into me. I feel a groan rising in my chest as I kiss her back, hard and desperate. She arches against me, pressing her body against mine.
This isn’t a socially acceptable kiss. It’s not the kind of kiss you share in an incredibly upmarket restaurant, where they lay the table with six different sizes of fork and the bottles of wine run into five figures.
But Briar doesn’t care. She twists her hands in my collar, pulling me closer, delving deeper. It feels like she’s trying to pour weeks’ worth of desire and frustration and sexual tension into one kiss.
Eventually, we gasp apart. My ears are ringing. I can feel the stares of scandalised diners piercing into me from all directions, but I can’t bring myself to look away from Briar. She tightens her grip on my collar, her blue eyes angry.
“You see,” she pants, “how hideous I find you?”
Before I can respond, she pushes forward for a series of smaller kisses, like gentle bites. Her hand comes to stroke through my hair, and my heart literally flutters. I don’t think I’ve ever liked a girl so much she gave me damn heart palpitations; but there’s something about the soft, tiny kisses, peppered all over my top and bottom lip, that hits me right in the stomach.
Finally, she stops, her lips still pressed to mine, breathing in my air. Her face is flushed, and her eyes are shiny with unshed tears. She blinks them back fiercely.
Shit. Did I make her cry? “Briar—” I start.
She glares up at me, then takes my face in her little hands. “Glen.” She leans forward and presses another tiny kiss to my lips. “You seriously worry about this stuff?”
“You’re so beautiful,” I rough out. “I don’t think you understand how beautiful.”
“Of course I understand, I own a mirror. I’m hot as shit.” Matt snorts softly in the background. “I’m not the deluded one, here.” Her thumb strokes my cheekbone, skating over the glossy, damaged scar tissue. I close my eyes, forcing myself not to flinch away. “You’re beautiful, too.”
I laugh humourlessly. “I’m hideous. You don’t have to lie to me.”
“Says who?” She demands. “Jesus Christ, I practically popped a boner when you came out of the room in your suit tonight.”
“I think you’re stunning, mate,” Kenta offers. I give him the finger.
Briar ignores us both. “For God’s sake, you’re not some hulking Quasimodo. You’re a very attractive man with an impressive scar. That’s it. Okay?”
I lick my lips. “But—”
“Just say okay.”
“Okay,” I mutter.
She nods crossly, sitting back in her seat just as a waiter steps forward with our starters. She waits for him to put our plates down, then grabs my chair, trying to tug it closer to her. Bemused, I stand up, letting her drag the chair to sit right by hers. She glares at me until I sit back down. “Good. Now put your arm around me and feed me pasta, like a good date.”
When I don’t move, she huffs, picking up my hand and wrapping my arm around her. “Jesus,” she complains, snuggling aggressively against my chest. “Do I have to do everything around here?”
I thread my fingers through her soft, honey-coloured curls. “I’ve never been so violently hugged,” I say mildly.
She sniffs. “Get used to it.”
We settle down, focussing on the food. It’s great, but not even the three-starred Michelin chef could distract me from the feel of Briar tucked up against me. She leans her head on my arm as she eats, occasionally glaring at people that turn and stare at us. Matt and Kenta eat too, although they’re taking turns, one of them taking a few bites while the other scans the room. Briar finishes her wine, so I lean forward to grab the bottle. I’ve just pulled out the cork when she casually drops a hand below the table, running her fingers over my crotch.
