The Ground Rules Part 7

Wow. I can't wrap my mind around that much money.

"Gorgeous...brilliant...altruistic...and rich," she gushes.

Enough. Enough.

"Okay, enough already Gwen. I think we know all there is to know. This is really reaching the point of cyber-obsession."

"What are you girls looking at?" Sylvia chimes in. I didn't even hear her come in. I can't help but wonder if she's spying on us.

"Oh...nothing," Gwen tells her, quickly clicking off.

"You girls look like you're up to something."

"Of course we were," I joke. "Aren't we always?"

Sylvia smiles and eyes us suspiciously.

"I love your skirt," I add, trying to distract her. Anyone who knows Sylvia knows a conversation about fashion will do the trick.

"Thanks," she says, beaming. "I had an impossible time trying to find a top to go with it..."

And she goes on.

And I barely hear a word.

All I can think about is Weston.

Chapter Six.

I want to see you again.

"DID YOU EAT ANYTHING AT ALL TODAY?" Gabe asks. "I saw you make lunch for the kids, but I haven't seen you eat anything."

He knows me too well. He knows I can't eat when I'm nervous.

"I've been sustaining on lemonade and gum all day," I confess.

He shakes his head a little. "Bad girl." He reaches over me, opens the glove compartment, one eye still on the road, and hands me a granola bar.

I take it but have no desire to eat it. "I can't eat."

"Why are you so on edge? They're just people. Just relax and have a good time. It'll be fun."

I'm sure it will, but still, I can't seem to calm my nerves. I fiddle with the hem of my dress-I've worn the quintessential dinner with friends piece-the LBD-or "little black dress" for the layman. The chunky, amber, Bohemian necklace I picked out to accentuate the dress is nice. It seems like a fitting outfit for dinner at a Malaysian place and an art showing. I was kind of going for that I just threw this on look, but really...I spent a gazillion hours putting it together-like I was prepping to be on the cover of Vogue.

"You look nice, by the way," Gabe tells me, and I light up. I was hoping he'd noticed.

"Thank you."

"Nice dress," he says, looking me over a second too long.

"Watch the road," I say, a smug smile on my face.

"I just have one problem with it. I don't think it's short enough."

I laugh. "It falls just above the knee. How short do you want it?"

"Shorter."

I smile, catching my reflection in the side mirror. "I'm not trying to be s.e.xy, just sophisticated."

"Well, if you're trying not to be s.e.xy, you've failed miserably."

I laugh. My chances of getting lucky tonight are probably pretty good.

We park near the restaurant, and I wobble in my heels a little. Why does restaurant dining always involve heels? I could have worn more sensible shoes, but Bridget is likely to show up in stilettos, and then everyone will tower over me. With the four inch heels, I stand at a proud five-foot-eight.

There's no sign of Weston and Bridget when we get to the restaurant.

"Let's go in," Gabe says, resting his hand on the small of my back. "They're probably inside."

The warm atmosphere is cozy. The walls are lined with striking rosewood paneling set against stained gla.s.s windows. The filtered sunlight creates a warm glow.

The hostess welcomes us and we tell her we're meeting friends. She informs us they haven't arrived.

Surprisingly, I don't care. I just want to stand here and take in the room. Large paper lantern lighting fixtures hang at varying heights, casting a soft orange light. I stretch my neck to peek into the dining room-people enjoying their meals, seated at white linen covered tables. I spot booths in the back-they look so fun and comfy. I really want to sit in a booth-I'm like a child discovering a new playground.

I love this place.

"Check out those booths," I tell Gabe. "Don't they look cool?"

He laughs. "You're such a kid."

I hear the doorbell clang, and I turn to see Bridget and Weston enter. He's holding the door for her, and they both smile warmly at us. He looks very sleek in a cream-colored fitted suit and flashy orange shirt.

And suddenly, the room gets a few degrees hotter. I've never seen a man in a suit like that, and he certainly makes it work. I'm so busy looking at Weston, I barely notice Bridget who happens to be wearing a little black dress too, under her cream-colored pea coat.

"You look fantastic," she says, kissing me on the cheek.

"You too," I reply. I'm sure she hears that a lot.

Weston speaks to the hostess, and she takes our jackets and leads us to the dining room, to our table. Weston pulls a chair for Bridget, and Gabe does the same for me-apparently, the boy is learning some manners. I smile up at him.

"Booth next time," he says.

"Next time," I say, a little disappointed.

Weston looks at us, a quizzical expression on his face. "Would you rather sit in a booth?"

"No, we were just saying...they look cozy."

He looks over. "Yes. Actually, they do. I'm sure we can make that happen."

The hostess smiles at us warmly as she walks us over to one of the booths. Like all the others, it's an enclosed s.p.a.ce-a little room of its own. Plush orange patterned cushions are meticulously lined up against the rosewood benches.

I slide easily along the wood bench and set my purse beside me.

Bridget smiles at Weston and signals him to slide in and sit across from me-the woman sure likes to share her man.

I'm not complaining.

She gingerly sits next to him and tilts her head, her blond curls bouncing slightly against her shoulder.

The server hands us our menus and takes our drink orders. Bridget and Gabe fall into conversation-and it flows so smoothly and effortlessly. There doesn't seem to be tension between them, like there is between Weston and me.

Bridget asks me how my week was, and I tell her all about my rambunctious kids.

"But at least I'm not dealing with accused murderers, like you do," I add, a pathetic attempt at conversation.

She laughs. "I think a cla.s.s full of five-year olds is a lot scarier."

I like her...I like her sense of humor.

Bridget tells us about the menu items and gives us her recommendations. I tell her I'm having what she's having. I realize I'm trying to emulate her a little, but who wouldn't?

I bury my face in my menu, checking out the dessert choices. I look up at Weston. He smiles and opens his menu.

I was right-the booth is cozy...real cozy-it's very intimate.

The atmosphere is charged.

And sensual.

I don't think Weston could have picked a s.e.xier restaurant if he tried, and I wonder for a second, if he did so on purpose.

Of course not. Of course he didn't.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

Obviously, I really don't mind sitting across from Weston-there are worse things to look at. I take in the details of him for a second-crisp orange b.u.t.ton shirt, tiny black fish dotting his tie, a silver-trimmed, amber tie clip, and matching oval cufflinks. It's all in the details, they say. He may be the most stylish man I have ever met.

My fingers trace the edge of my own silver-trimmed amber pendant, a larger version of his cufflinks.

We look at each other, but we don't say a word.

I finally summon the courage to speak. "I like your cufflinks."

"Thank you. I like your necklace," he says, his gaze intense. "We make quite the pair."

Oh...I wish.

"Did you purposely color coordinate with the restaurant?" I tease, looking up at the soft orange light fixtures above us.

He laughs, looking up. "No. It's purely coincidental." His laugh is soft...beautiful.

"Well, you look very nice." Geez...is this my attempt at flirting? Well, if it is, it is a feeble attempt at best.

"Thank you. You look quite nice yourself."

I smile at him, and I suddenly feel shy.

"I confess," he says. "I really can't take the credit for my appearance."

"Bridget picked it out?"

"Actually, my stylist did."

Wow...the man has a stylist. I thought only movie stars had stylists.

"Trust me," Bridget chimes in. "He needs her."

I hadn't realized Bridget had been listening, and I'm a little embarra.s.sed-because of the despicable flirting. But then again, she has been flirting shamelessly with my husband too.

"He is such a nerd. He has no clue when it comes to style."

"She said she wouldn't be seen with me in public if I didn't hire a stylist," Weston explains.

"You should have seen the looks of him," Bridget tells us between giggles. "He used to wear these horrid tweed jackets."

I find her words a little harsh. Geez...give the guy a break. Weston seems mildly uncomfortable-she's probably shared too much, and I get the feeling she does that a lot.

"Well, the stylist did a great job."

He blushes a little-which makes him even s.e.xier.

G.o.d help me.

The truth is...he fascinates me.

He first comes off as hard, sleek, cool, and collected, but underneath the armor hides a sweet, sensitive introvert. I shift my gaze to Bridget-bubbly and outgoing. They are perfectly suited to each other-she's the yin to his yang.