R. Griffin: Seamless

“Wow,” he said after she broke off the kiss. “I could get used to that greeting.”

“What’re you doing out here ringing the doorbell?” She took the flowers and walked to the kitchen to find a vase.

“I’m picking you up for our date.” He followed her and watched her open every cabinet in the kitchen. “I don’t have a vase.”

“You have a fucking picnic basket but you don’t have a vase?” She put her hands on her hips.

“You look hot.” George’s eyes traveled over her see-through long sleeve white shirt, black bra, and skinny jeans. He stopped when he got to her fuck-with-me-and-I’ll-stab-you heels. “Where in the world do you buy shoes like that?”

She held up her foot, examining her new shoes, and laughed. “You like these?”

He nodded. “I’m kinda scared of them, though.”

“I bought them for my interview with Ms. Diane Sawyer in New York. I thought if it was going badly, I’d accidently kick Diane in the shin and then apologize profusely.”

“Good plan.” He laughed. “It’s all set up then?”

“Yes. I asked Millie if she’d go with me. They’re filming on a Saturday so that we can take the train up from DC after work on that Friday.”

“You guys aren’t going alone,” George said.

“Um, yeah. We are,” Stella refuted. “End of discussion.”

“Come on, I have reservations.” George took her hand and changed the subject.

“Where?” she asked, following him.

“Tabard Inn. I told you I’d take you.”

“Do you think I’m dressed okay?” She looked down at her casual attire.

He pulled her to him swiftly before she could run away and change. “You’re gorgeous, and every person in that restaurant will look at you because you are, but,” his dimples made an appearance, “it may also be because you have shivs on your shoes.”

“You like these, huh?”

“I would suggest you wear those later, but I’m afraid you’d hurt me.” George’s hands slid down her back and grabbed her ass.

“I’m sure we can figure something out,” she retorted, separating herself from him and walking toward the door, his hand holding her wrist possessively. She waved at Agent Morris as they climbed onto George’s bike and took off toward DC.

George and Stella walked into the Tabard Inn holding hands. Stella was excited; she’d heard great things about the restaurant and George had bragged about the homemade doughnuts many times. It was also nice to be doing something as normal as a date.

George cleared his throat and squeezed Stella’s hand when the hostess asked for the name. “I reserved Room 51.”

The hostess smiled. “Oh yes, Finnegan. Come with me.”

“George, what did you do?”

They followed the hostess into the restaurant and walked through the entire dining area and into a private room. The Inn was old and all of the decorations were very traditional, all dark colors and heavy draperies. Room 51 was painted red and big enough for 12 people to sit, but had two place settings with candlelight at the far end of the table. A grin spread across her face.

“I got us a private dinner.” George smiled proudly and motioned around the room. “This way we can have a date without people staring at you.”

Stella was impressed. George was beyond considerate and she really appreciated it. She hoped he knew how much. “I love you,” she said as she walked to the table and sat down.

“You should.” He laughed and sat next to her, pulling her hand from her lap under the table and kissing her knuckles reverently, one by one.

They smiled at each other like love struck idiots until the first course was served.

She smiled as baked oysters were set in front of them. “Oysters? You know you don’t need that to get me naked.”

“Oh, I know,” he answered with an exaggerated wink, then devoured one of the oysters.

She kicked him under the table.

“Ow!” He reached down and rubbed his shin. “Shit. Those fucking shoes.”

She laughed, which turned to a snort. “Sorry, babe. I forgot about the spikes.”

The main course was placed in front of them and she smiled again. “Do they not let you order here?”

“They change their menu daily. I selected the dishes I thought you’d like.”

“You ordered for me?” She put the first bite of snapper in her mouth and it melted. She groaned. “You know I fucking hate that.”

“It sounds like you hate what I ordered for you,” he retorted.

“Not to change the subject, but Millie invited us over for dinner and drinking for the Penn State/Michigan game. She’s still kinda pissy with me about not telling her everything and she still thinks I’m hiding that Patrick and I were together.” She made a circle with one hand and lewdly stuck her index finger in and out a couple times to signify sex.

George laughed and shook his head. “You’re an idiot. I knew what ‘together’ meant without the hand motions.”

“Just thought it might help.” She shrugged and took another bite of her dinner.

“Well, that’s fine with me. We haven’t seen them in a while. I still think it’s crazy she thinks that about you and Patrick.”

“Well, she thinks something’s up because I won’t tell her everything and it’s completely obvious Patrick’s keeping my secrets. I just have to figure out if I should tell her or not.”

“You’d break the law?” George asked, his mouth full.

“I’m so past breaking the law at this point,” Stella answered, “I don’t think it really matters.” Telling Millie about Jamie was nothing compared to what she was planning.

George just nodded in understanding, not wanting to push her.

Dinner was fantastic. And quiet. The peace was amazing to both of them—it had been so long since they’d been able to go out in public for any sort of intimate anything. They talked about politics, movies and work. She loved to hear him talk about his work; his face positively lit up. Ever since he’d helped with the article on her, he was writing stories for the Associated Press on a regular basis. He did seem happier, but he was stretched thin with writing and managing Finnegan’s. Stella was a little worried that he was overdoing it.

Stella sighed. God, it was glorious to sit and talk about normal shit for once. She cleared her throat. She hated to bring up this shit, but it was their life.

“So, I talked to Agent Harris today. The protective detail is going to stay on the house for a while longer. They still haven’t located Jamie, but when they do they want me to wear a wire and get him to admit to what he did.”

“Big surprise. Jesse and I haven’t been able to find him either.” George took a nonchalant sip of his Jameson and scowled at her scowl.

“George!” she reprimanded, attempting another kick under the table. “I don’t want you getting deeper into this clusterfuck and getting hurt. We’ve talked about this.”

Was that a whine? She didn’t whine.

She had to admit that she knew George and Jesse were looking for Jamie, and had been since the Keys; maybe she just didn’t want to hear about their progress or lack thereof. The thought of George and Jesse going after Jamie made her more anxious than ever, almost as anxious as she was knowing that Jamie had been in their house, just waiting for her. Or Millie. Christ, what if he went after Millie? Patrick was looking for him too, and while she was worried about Patrick, it was a different type of worry. Patrick, at least, knew Jamie well enough to have some insight into his thought process, however deranged it might be. Her money was on Patrick finding the bastard.

“El!” George interrupted her racing thoughts with a swift squeeze on the thigh. “Back off with the shoes, Love. Try not to worry about me and Jesse.” His face softened and he stroked her leg under the table. “I do feel better with the security detail on the house, though, don’t you? And the press hasn’t been as bad.”