The Hang Up (First Impressions) (8 page)

“That’s so sad.”

He nodded, and Miriam caught a glint of something dark in his eyes. “It is, but we’re better off without him. For as long as I’m around, Ellie will never be alone as a parent, and Henry will always have a man in his life who adores him and enjoys spending time with him.”

The passion in his words surprised her a little. Her own feelings about kids tended to be a bit ambivalent, though she’d wondered what it might be like to feel that sort of love for a tiny human. Watching Jason now, she kind of got it. Something in his love of his nephew touched a soft, dormant part of her heart.

“They’re lucky to have you,” she said.

“Nuh-uh. I’m lucky to have them.”

Miriam was about to ask another question when something bumped her shin. She glanced down to see Phuzeei ramming his head against her leg.

“There’s the little pervert who gave you a glimpse of my junk,” Jason said as he bent down to scratch the cat behind the ears. “Hey, big guy.”

“Mrwow,” her cat said and nudged Jason’s hand with his head.

“Phuzeei,” Jason said, shaking his head as he stood back up. “I can’t say I ever imagined myself stroking a froofy white Persian named ‘Fuzzy.’”

“He may look froofy, but he’s kind of a badass.”

Jason quirked an eyebrow. “You mean beyond his skills at opening bathroom doors like some sort of furry ninja spy?”

“I taught him more skills than that one. Watch this.”

Miriam set her plate down and reached for a notepad she’d been using to doodle sketches for an ad campaign. She tore off a sheet and crumpled it into a ball. Phuzeei whirled around and pricked his ears at attention.

“You ready, boy?” Miriam asked, grinning. “Fetch!”

She hurled the paper wad down the hall. In a blur of fur and paws, Phuzeei went tearing after it, his plumy tail streaking behind him. The cat skidded to a halt at the end of the hall, furry feet sliding across the polished wood floor. He picked up the paper in his teeth, turned around, and trotted back with his prize.

“I’ll be damned,” Jason said as he bent down to take the paper Phuzeei deposited at his feet. “You taught your cat to fetch?”

“I told you he’s got mad skills.”

“Color me impressed.”

“Color me starving,” she said. “You ready to move on to dinner?”

“Anytime you are.”

“I’ll take that,” she said, plucking the paper from his hand. “Feel free to wash up in the guest bath. I’ll put the finishing touches on dinner.”

“Need any help?”

“Nope, I’ve got it. I prepped most of it ahead of time, so we’re just about ready.”

She turned and hurried into the kitchen where she lost herself in the last-minute bustle of sautéing and garnishing and sneaking little tastes of everything to make sure the meal had turned out okay.

She’d almost forgotten about Jason until she heard his voice behind her.

“Holy cow!” he said. “Are you some kind of gourmet cook?”

She grinned and dusted a sprinkling of fresh chives over a side of roasted potatoes she’d just plated. “Sort of,” she said. “I love good food, and cooking’s a hobby of mine.”

“This looks amazing. You weren’t kidding about replicating the restaurant experience. This looks better than any restaurant meal I’ve had.”

“Thanks. I’ll stop short of getting out my silver cloches.”

“Since I don’t know what a cloche is, that’s probably best. Unless it’s something sexy?”

Miriam laughed. “A cloche is a bell-shaped cover the chef puts over the plate to keep things warm until the waiter removes it with a flourish.”

“I think you’ve got plenty of flourish going on here. Can I help you carry something?”

“Can you grab those salads right there?”

She scooped up the dinner plates, admiring the presentation of dishes and the heady fragrance of herbs and caramelized onion. She led the way back out to the dining room and set the plates down. “You can put the salads right here,” she said and pointed to a spot at the top of her place mat.

He obeyed, then stood waiting while she took her seat. “I see you’ve got some of the etiquette down pat,” she said. “Waiting for a lady to be seated is a nice touch.”

Jason grinned and sat down next to her. “I may not be a gentleman in all regards, but I do my best. I’m also a pretty quick learner.”

She wondered for an instant what that meant, her brain sauntering down a vivid path that left her pondering in what other capacity he exercised his gentlemanly tendencies and quick learning. What was Jason like in bed? Was he rough and wild, or gentle and slow? Was he the sort of guy to softly stroke a woman’s cheek as she unzipped his fly and dropped to her knees, or was he the sort to thread his fingers into her hair, gripping tightly as she sucked him deeply into her—

Hiccup!

Miriam clamped a hand to her mouth, horrified by her own faux pas at the dinner table. She was trying so hard to set a classy example, too. She started to excuse herself, then realized Jason hadn’t heard her. He was too busy studying the utensils laid out beside his plate, picking up one fork at a time and frowning at it.

She took a few deep breaths, hoping to get the hiccups under control.

There, that was better. She took a careful sip of wine, grateful the hiccup seemed to be a onetime thing.

Jason had already picked a fork and was grasping a knife in the other hand, preparing to cut into his meat. Miriam touched his hand. “Here’s another tip,” she said. “You don’t want to start eating until you’ve been given the signal.”

“There’s a signal?”

She nodded. “It’s another reason you need to keep a close eye on your host.”

“This is sounding more and more like a weird game of charades.” He frowned. “Okay, what’s the signal?”

“It’s—”

Hiccup!

“Pardon me,” she said and clamped a hand over her mouth again as the heat rose to her cheeks. “I apologize.”

“No worries. What’s the signal to start eating?”

“The napkin,” Miriam said as she spread hers across her thighs in illustration. “Don’t take a bite until your host puts the napkin in his lap.”

“Oh.” He set down his utensils and picked up his own napkin. “Right, I guess I knew that. I got distracted.”

“No problem. That’s why we’re practicing.”

“So I’ve always wondered where I’m supposed to put the napkin if I have to get up and take a leak. On the back of my chair or on the table or what?”

“First of all, you probably don’t want to announce at the dinner table that you have to take a leak.” She smiled a little to soften her words. “Say ‘pardon me for just a moment.’ Then put the napkin on the seat of the chair.”

Jason snorted. “I feel like I should be taking notes here.”

“There’ll be a test later.”

“Why do I think you might be serious?”

Miriam smiled. “Okay, so don’t take a bite until your host has spread the napkin in his lap, but it’s even better to wait until he’s started to—”

Hiccup!

Miriam covered her mouth, then picked up her water glass. “Excuse me,” she said, then took three big gulps of water. Her cheeks felt warm, and she realized she was royally blowing this polished image she was working so hard to teach him.

To his credit, Jason seemed unfazed. He was busy adjusting his napkin on his lap and bumped Miriam’s leg under the table. “Whoops, sorry,” he said as his fingers grazed her bare thigh. “I didn’t mean to grope you.”

“Not a problem,” she said, still focused on trying to control her hiccups. She took two more gulps of water, then set her glass down and tried a sip of wine instead. There. That seemed better.

Her thigh was still tingling where his hand had brushed her skin, and her face burned with the embarrassment of losing control of her diaphragm at the dinner table. For crying out loud, could there be a worse time to have hiccups?

“All right,” she said at last, then swallowed hard. “So speaking of the napkin, when your meal is finished, you’ll want to place it on the left hand side of your plate.”

“What if the waiter already took my plate?”

“The napkin still goes to the left of where your plate used to be.”

“Do I have to fold it back up the way it was? Because I don’t think I can do that fancy napkin origami where it looks like a swan or a fan or the
Titanic
or whatever.”

“Just place it neatly,” she said. “Try to tuck any really big food stains inside.”

“And I already know I’m not supposed to spit gum in a cloth napkin,” he said, grinning a little sheepishly. “Learned that one the hard way once.”

“Right.” Miriam took another small sip of wine. Okay, good. The hiccups seemed to be gone. She picked up her own knife and fork and cut a small bite of pork. She speared it into her mouth and began to chew, savoring the freshness of the rosemary and the zing of balsamic glaze. She’d gotten the meat nice and juicy, which was a plus.

Jason watched her for a moment, then picked up his own knife and fork. He sliced into the meat, his hand huge and strong-looking on the shaft of the knife.

“Oh my God,” he said around a mouthful of pork, and the look of bliss on his face was enough to stop Miriam from reminding him not to talk with his mouth full. “What is this?”

“Rosemary-brined pork chops with a balsamic glaze,” she said. “Beside that, you have smoked fingerling potatoes, porcini mushrooms dressed with Greek yogurt and pancetta, and a roasted beet salad with shallot vinaigrette, watercress, and a Cypress Grove chèvre sachet.”

“Holy shit.”

She grinned and rolled her eyes. “Thank you, but you may want to work on coming up with a different way to express your appreciation for a meal.”

“Duly noted. You made all this?”

“Yes. Normally at a restaurant, the meal would come out one dish at a time, but I thought it would be better if we—”

Hiccup!

Jason laughed as Miriam flushed again. She shook her head and picked up her water glass. “I’m so sorry,” she said between gulps of water. “I have no idea why this is happening.”

“Well, it’s an involuntary spasm of the diaphragm and respiratory organs, resulting in the sudden closure of the glottis.” Jason grinned and took a sip of wine while Miriam sat staring at him in disbelief.

“You sounded like a medical dictionary just then.”

He shrugged. “I took a lot of anatomy classes when I was earning a degree in exercise physiology.”

“Oh.” She gulped some more water, emptying her glass. Before she could reach for the pitcher, he’d picked it up and given her a refill.

“You’re on the right track with the water,” he said. “You could try plugging your ears while you swallow it, or taking a mouthful of water and bending at the waist before taking a drink.”

She frowned, pretty sure either of those activities would kill the sophisticated dinner vibe she was aiming for. “I think I have it under control,” she said. “Thank you, though.”

“Suit yourself.”

Miriam cleared her throat. “Anyway, like I was saying. Ordinarily at a restaurant, the meal would come out with multiple courses. An appetizer, then maybe a soup course, salad, then your entrée. You want to defer to your host on how many courses to order,” she said.

“What if I’m hungrier than Jack Wainswright?”

She shook her head. “The idea is to keep everyone at the table eating at the same pace. You don’t want him to be digging into dessert while you’re still working on your salad.”

“Unlikely.” Jason grinned. “I’m a fast eater.”

“For the sake of a professional dinner, that’s not a selling point. There’s no shame in going slow.”

“Sure there is. It means I get to eat less.”

Miriam raised an eyebrow at him, but Jason just grinned and lifted his wineglass in a mock toast to her. He took a sip, then set down his glass, picked up his utensils, and sliced into his meat again. With the skill of a surgeon, he cut his pork into a dozen little bite-sized hunks, his hands moving with meticulous precision. Miriam watched, fascinated, almost reluctant to stop him.

“Um, Jason? You’re very efficient there, but you kinda want to cut just one bite at a time,” she said.

“Got it,” he said, nodding once as he forked a bite into his mouth and chewed. “See? This is good stuff. The advice, I mean, but so is this mushroom thingy. Unreal, seriously.”

“Thanks.” Miriam took a bite of her own pork and savored the burst of flavors and the moist juiciness of the meat. “I take it you didn’t do a lot of formal business dinners in your previous job?”

“No. Half the time I was guiding trips, which meant roasting weenies over a campfire or eating baked beans straight from the can.”

“After opening it with a machete?”

He grinned. “Only if I forgot my Leatherman.”

Miriam flashed on a memory of her dad doing the same thing on a family camping trip, grinning at her with cracker crumbs in his beard. A prick of sadness needled her in the gut, and Miriam took a sip of wine to tamp it down.

“So what if I sit down in the restaurant and there are a zillion utensils?” Jason asked, pulling her back to the present. “I think I figured it out here, but I’ve seen TV shows where they have this huge arsenal of forks and knives and spoons and—”

“Right,” Miriam said. “When in doubt, start with the utensil farthest from the plate and work your way inward.”

“Oh,” he said. “That seems simple enough.”

“It gets a little more complicated when you throw in early courses like soup or fish or oysters. In cases like that, you’ll want to—”

Hiccup!

“Okay, that’s it,” Jason said as he threw down his napkin. “Every time you do that, you get this look on your face like you just cursed in church or something. It’s just a hiccup. Everyone does it. Hell, if it’ll make you feel better, I can probably work up a belch or something.”

“That won’t be necessary. I just—”

Hiccup!

“Dammit!” Miriam set her water glass down hard. “I’m trying to teach you proper dinner etiquette. I’m hardly setting a good example.”

“It’s an uncontrollable reflex, Miriam. Besides, it’s not like you farted at the table.”

“God,” she said as she dropped her fork with a clatter. “This meal is going downhill fast. I feel like I need to—”