...she wasn’t prideful enough to think that she didn’t have to consider Charles Douglas’ offer. She did. She needed money if she was going to keep a roof over her head, and he was offering some.
So, later that night as she sat amidst her packed boxes, Tunie called him.
“Douglas.”
She must have hesitated a beat too long because he repeated, “Douglas.”
“Hi, Mr., um, this is Tunie. I met you in the coffee shop earlier today. You gave me your card, and – ”
“Where are you?”
Okay, old Charlie was apparently not a patient man. “At home,” she said, adopting the same, time saving, short speech.
“Give me your address. I’ll come get you for dinner.”
She did.
“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”
Well, she thought, hanging up. Here we go.
She ran through the shower and quickly threw on her best dress, a sleeveless LBD that she often wore on job interviews with her only good sweater, a black cardigan with small, sparkly gold buttons that had been her mothers. She added black tights and her mothers’ knee length black boots that pinched her feet just a bit, thin gold hoops, and some lip gloss. Then she pulled her natural into a conservative bun low and to the side and added a small gold bow. Done.
The buzzer sounded, and Tunie jumped. Her nerves were shot, but she squared her shoulders, put on her coat, grabbed her purse, and went out to meet him. She did not want him inside her home, even if it was only her home for a few more days.
“You’re ready.” He seemed surprised.
“Yes.”
He examined her quickly but thoroughly then led the way to a sleek black BMW. He handed her into the front seat, and Tunie shivered. His scent lingered in the cool interior, clean and indescribably male. She smelled him not cologne, and it was not unpleasant.
They said nothing as he drove away from Pilsen toward Halsted. She was surprised when they pulled up in front of a familiar Greek restaurant. She’d peeked in the window before, so she knew it was beautifully decorated, but it was not terribly elegant or trendy. It didn’t seem like his kind of place. She hoped that was a good sign.
He left the car with the valet and guided her in, a hand at her back. They were seated quickly.
“You drink?” He asked.
“Not often, but yes.”
“Wine?”
“White, please.”
He ordered their wine and food without asking her what she wanted or giving her a chance to look at the menu.
“The family style dinner has several courses. You’ll be able to try different things.”
She just nodded. She wasn’t a fussy eater. She was just glad she was going to eat some real food and not the peanut butter and banana sandwich that would have been her dinner.
The wine appeared, and he gestured for her to try it. She did, smiled at the waiter, and took a large sip after he filled her glass.
“What’s your name?” He asked, the second they were alone.
“Petunia Ann Marshall.”
“Petunia?” That smile flirted with his full mouth again.
“Yeah, Petunia. I had a twin sister named Poppy who died in a fire.”
