White Picket Fences

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I'm sitting in the butter-soft leather seat of an obscenely expensive Porsche coupe, and Ryan is driving it around the slushy, salted streets of downtown Boston like a he's competing in a Formula One race. 

"I thought we'd go to this great little place I know," he says, swinging the Porsche around a particularly tight curve. "Very small and exclusive, with excellent food, and best of all - it's discreet. We can discuss our matter in private."

"And you don't want to tell me what that matter might concern?"

He flicks his eyes at me and smiles. It's a good smile, all sparkling eyes and dimpled cheeks.

"A lady such as yourself should know that patience is a virtue, Penny."

Yeah, that's me. A lady, a princess, a fucking paragon of virtue.

For the billionth time, I wonder just what the hell Ryan Dashwood thinks he's doing with me.

*******

He valets - of course he valets, and there's a portrait of Benjamin Franklin on the tip he slips the driver - and steps through the restaurant's heavy oak door the same way he does everything.

With utter confidence.

I trudge along behind him like a ratty, half-forgotten rolling bag, idly admiring the line of his broad shoulders under his suit coat.

Inside, the restaurant is small but tastefully opulent; it smells like rosemary and lemons and money.

Someone appears immediately to check our coats, and Ryan - always a perfect gentleman - steps in to help me with mine first.

I look up at him across the eight inches or so of height difference. A few tiny, glittering snowflakes have caught in his hair and are beginning to melt; they're a nice, normal human contrast to his otherwise perfect composure.

He reaches out, his thumbs brushing over my collarbones as he pushes the parka from my shoulders; for one small moment he's so close that I can feel his breath on my neck, a warm exhale over my wintry cold skin.

I shiver, despite the cheery fire crackling in the large fireplace.

The maitre'd looks up from his station and surveys me with mild disdain - an expression that's immediately transformed into something much more pleasant when he recognizes Ryan at my side with his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of my back.

I know this place. Not that I've ever actually eaten here, because one meal would wipe out my entire food budget for the month, but everyone in Boston knows its reputation.

Mr. Palmer had me make reservations for him and his wife here for their twentieth anniversary. I had to book it four months in advance, and even then I had to insinuate that our firm was a much bigger deal in the Boston legal community than three employees and a rundown office in Dorchester.

This is the sort of place where, to get a table, you have to both plan ahead and be someone - and yet here we are, being seated with no more than a nod and smile from my unlikely companion.

And we're given a great table, no less. It's nestled in a dim, candlelit corner, the flames sparkling off the spotless crystal and silver, the pristine tablecloth starched and pressed.

The ceiling is antique pressed tin, dotted with rows of crystal-dripping chandeliers that light everything in a flattering golden glow. Every table is filled with classy couples wearing designer clothing and mountains of diamonds, their voices a delicate murmur over the tasteful classical music playing.

Everything is beyond gorgeous. It's flawless, coated in the thick glosses of romance and wealth.

And it makes me itch; it feels completely wrong.

Because I don't belong in a place like this. I will never belong in a place like this.

There's half a dozen pieces of silverware arranged on either side of the bone china place setting. I squirm in my plush chair, trying to remember the rule of what fork to use with each course.

(For once, I'm halfway grateful that I have no life and have therefore seen every cheesy romance movie the Hallmark channel has ever made. Because there was one last year about a shopgirl whose high school boyfriend became an international movie star and then returned home to win her back. He took her somewhere like this and taught her a trick - start with the utensils on the outside and work your way in. I smile, thinking that I owe whoever wrote that line into the movie a nice fruit basket of thanks.)

Ryan drapes his origami-folded napkin on his lap with a flourish - the maitre'd placed mine across my thighs for me, which was supremely awkward - and looks up at our immediately-present, tuxedo-clad server.

"We'll start with a bottle of your best Merlot, thank you."

I look up from the menu quickly, shaking my head.

"Oh no, I really shouldn't be drinking. I have to go back to work-"

"No, you don't." Ryan cuts me off with his green eyes flashing, annoyed at being contradicted; I'm guessing it doesn't happen to him often. "After we discuss this very important business deal, Mr. Palmer has agreed to allow you the afternoon to consider it."

My eyes narrow; I'm now beyond suspicious.

Because Mr. Palmer is, quite frankly, a total rat bastard. He's egotistical and self-centered and never, ever allows his employees time off; in the year and a half I've been with his firm I've never had so much as a half-day's vacation. I've even had to work through food poisoning before, vomiting into my trash can in between answering calls and greeting clients.

So whatever this supposed business deal we are discussing is, it must be huge.

Ryan is giving nothing away yet, checking his phone while he waits for our drinks. The light shines beautifully on his thick hair, sparking on the copper streaks running through it.

I wonder if that's natural or if he dyes it - but he doesn't seem like a man willing to waste time in a beautician's chair. It's beautiful either way, like tiny currents of molten lava.

He looks up and smiles at me, apparently already over his irritation from just a moment ago. His temper is a lone lightning strike, a blinding flash of heat and power and gone as fast as it comes.

And now I'm racking my brain, trying to figure out how to make conversation with a man that (a) I have nothing in common with and (b) has such a high hotness level that one glance makes my brain turn to thick, gooey honey.

Thankfully, I don't have to. The waiter returns with the wine and Ryan switches the phone to vibrate and puts it away. He expertly goes through all the weird, wine-connoisseur rituals of swirling and sniffing and sipping and God-knows-what-else before finally nodding his approval.

The waiter pours a glass for me and leaves us in private; I'm so nervous that I feel like half my internal organs have migrated north and have taken up residence in my throat.

Ryan straightens his starched shirt cuffs, the diamond cufflinks sparkling in the candlelight, before folding his hands on the tabletop. His fingers are long and manicured, the nails even and buffed.

"I detest small talk, so I won't waste your time with it either."

I nod, relieved. My curiosity is a caged lion, pacing restlessly in my chest; I take a big gulp of Merlot to try to calm it down.

Ryan's teeth are perfect, a row of gleaming white soldiers above his strong, square chin.

"Penny, I brought you here to ask you to marry me."