Page 25 of Brutal
That’s a lie. But I won’t press it. I lean back slightly, giving her space again.
Brian arrives with our appetizer. “Ahi tuna tartare with a soy and wasabi glaze, garnished with radish sprouts and melba toast points.”
“Thank you.” I nod to him.
Once he’s gone— “You’re serving me raw fish?” Delaney says.
“You don’t like it?”
“Oh, I love it.” She furrows her brow. “It just doesn’t seem on brand for you.”
“And what might be on brand for me?”
“A two-inch tomahawk ribeye, seared on the outside and raw on the inside.”
I can’t help a smile. “Are you describing what you think I’d like to eat? Or are you describing me?”
Her cheeks flush.
Good. I’ve knocked her off balance.
But something has shifted.
She spreads some of the tuna onto a toast point and takes a bite. After she swallows, she wipes her lips on her napkin. “Delicious.”
I simply nod and take a bite myself.
And I don’t tell her she’s right about my preference for a giant blood-rare steak.
6
DELANEY
My grandmother always told me it was tacky for a man to order for his date. I never went on a second date with anyone who did that with me.
Tonight?
I’m not even sure this is a date.
I’m sitting across from Samson Vexley, watching him drink bourbon that costs more than my rent, and eating tuna tartare—the most sinful and buttery thing I’ve ever put into my mouth.
When we’re finished with the appetizer and salad, another man—the sommelier, I assume—arrives with a bottle of wine.
He holds it out to Samson. “Your Pauillac, Mr. Vexley.” He uncorks it expertly and pours a small amount into Samson’s glass. “Cabernet dominant. You’ll notice darker fruit, blackcurrant, a bit of cedar. It opens slowly, but there’s depth once it does.”
Samson nods, picks up the wineglass, and swirls the wine. “Nice nose,” he says. “I smell the cedar.” He takes a sip. “Delicious. Thank you.”
The sommelier fills my glass without asking.
I like wine, but I don’t know much about it. I can only imagine what this bottle costs.
The sommelier fills Samson’s glass and leaves the opened bottle on our table as he leaves.
Samson nods toward the glass. “Try it.”
I purse my lips. “I’m afraid it may be wasted on me.”
“Good wine is never wasted on anyone.”
