50 shades darker

Chapter 2

Everything in it is entirely imaginary and intended only for entertainment; I created it for fun. I did not write 50 Shades darker or any of its characters, and I do not own them.

Chapter 2

He leads me into a small, intimate restaurant.

"This place will have to do," Harry grumbles. "We don't have much time." The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linen tablecloths, and walls the same color as Harry's playroom—deep blood red—with small gilt mirrors randomly placed, white candles, and small vases of white roses.

Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the background about this thing called love. It's very romantic.

The waiter leads us to a table for two in a small alcove, and I sit, apprehensive and wondering what he's going to say.

"We don't have long," Harry says to the waiter as we sit. "So we'll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, béarnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables, whatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list." 

"Certainly, sir." 

The waiter, taken aback by Harry's cool, calm efficiency, scuttles off. Harry places his Blackberry on the table. Jeez, don't I get a choice?

"And if I don't like steak?"

He sighs. "Don't start, Louis."

"I am not a child, Harry."

"Well, stop acting like one."

It's as if he's slapped me. I blink at him. So this is how it will be, an agitated, fraught conversation, albeit in a very romantic setting but certainly no hearts and flowers.

"I'm a child because I don't like steak?" I mutter trying to conceal my hurt.

"For deliberately making me jealous. It's a childish thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend's feelings, leading him on like that?" Harry presses his lips together in a thin line and scowls as the waiter returns with the wine list.

I blush—I hadn't thought of that. Poor Niall—I certainly don't want to encourage him.

Suddenly, I'm mortified. Harry has a point; it was a thoughtless thing to do. He glances at the wine list.

"Would you like to choose the wine?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at me expectantly, arrogance personified. He knows I know nothing about wine.

"You choose," I answer, sullen but chastened.

"Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please."

"Er . . . we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir."

"A bottle then," Harry snaps.

"Sir." He retreats, subdued, and I don't blame him. I frown at Fifty. What's eating him?

Oh, me probably, and somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddess rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She's been asleep for a while.

"You're very grumpy."

He gazes at me impassively. "I wonder why that is?"

"Well, it's good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn't you say?" I smile at him sweetly.

His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost reluctantly, his lips lift, and I know he's trying to stifle his smile.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Apology accepted, and I'm pleased to inform you I haven't decided to become a vegetarian since we last ate."

"Since that was the last time you ate, I think that's a moot point."