Chapter 9

It took surprisingly little convincing to coax Celeste into agreeing to go out of the apartment and have dinner with him somewhere more appropriate to her dress. Artlessly, she allowed him to wrap her in the new coat and shawl. She managed well in the low-heeled velvet pumps he'd bought, after a few minutes of practice. A fine, tingling excitement was bubbling through his veins as he led her into the small restaurant. The slow and steady trust that was filling her eyes with every shared smile or exchange of glances made him feel young, and somehow gallant, like some sort of honor-bound knight of old.

Celeste was a refreshing change. Most of the women he'd met in the last twenty years had their own agendas and goals in life; they had learned to talk the talk and walk the walk, as he had. Although not exactly shy, Celeste had a certain reserve that charmed, and her reactions were completely genuine, from the way she sipped the wine he ordered and politely put it aside without comment to the avid curiosity in her eyes as she took in their surroundings. He ordered for both of them, and she made no objections. She's the perfect trophy girl, he thought, and immediately felt ashamed of the shallow thought. Celeste interrupted his self-recrimination with a question.

"What do you do?" she asked, picking at her salad. She was an excellent mimic, watching the way he handled his utensils and copying them exactly. He cleared her throat and took a swallow of wine.

"I write music." There, a nice simple solution, a vague answer. As though anything could ever be simple with her. She put down her fork and looked at him, reaching for her water glass.

"What kind of music? The only things I remember are things like Mozart. Do you write like that?"

"Hardly!" The word burst from him, laced with mingled horror and laughter. "I write rock and roll, baby." The curious tilt of her head and the sudden question in her blue eyes made him shake his head. He smiled and shrugged. "Tell you what, I'll put on some music when we go home, okay?" When we go home. It had slipped out of nowhere, but he found that he meant it.

"I'd like that," she said quietly. They resumed their meal in companionable silence, broken now and then with Celeste's observations on the restaurant, the food, the other diners. By the time they finished their meal and made their way out into the frosty night, he was mellow with wine and relaxed enough to wrap his arm around her shoulders in the cab. They crept through the frosted streets, Christmas songs bubbling from the cab's stereo. Celeste's head rested on his shoulder drowsily, her curls tickling the side of his neck, her slight weight a warm, comfortable presence.