Forty Eight

The hostess receives us by the door with a big smile on her pale face. She recognizes Dominique before he can introduce himself.

“Your table is right this way, Sir.” She leads us down to the corner of the restaurant that’s a little secluded from the rest of the restaurant.

The tables here are few, with one couple already occupying the table at the far end. The hostess pushes a door open and steps through. Dominique leads me through, with his hand on my lower back. His palm on my back sends tingles to my feet and my heartbeat accelerates.

“Where’s she taking us?”

“To our table,” Dominique replies as he looks down at me, with an unfamiliar glint in his eyes.

We climb through a flight of stairs as the hostess opens a door and the evening breeze hits my face. We’re on the rooftop where there are at least five beautiful tents. Underneath the tents are two white chairs and a table with a tablecloth over the tables. There is warm lighting hanging off the tents, with candles on the table.

In