I’m not sure what I should expect when we walk inside. The waiters wear dress shirts with ties, and each table drinks wine from crystal glasses. It’s the type of place you take a date with the expectation of getting f****d afterward. I can’t even imagine how expensive the meals are, but it’s not any of my worry because Robert’s paying. Perhaps I’ll order the most expensive dinner I can.
When Gemma moves toward the host stand, I can tell she’s uncomfortable.
It’s reserved seating only, so she gives them Robert’s name. Moments later, they’re escorting us through the dining area to a semi-private room in the back. As we pass the tables, I feel as if there’s a spotlight on me, and everyone knows I don’t belong. At times like this, I’m convinced I have the word convict tattooed on my forehead
