Frontline by Alexandra Richland Page A

relieved it will be just the two of us dining tonight. It’s nice to have Trenton unguarded for a change. However, according to the arrangement of the placemats and shiny cutlery, I will sit at one end of the table while he sits at the other. We’re going to have to shout at each other to be heard.
    Perhaps he isn’t so unguarded after all.
    Trenton slides my chair from the table and gestures for me to sit. “Vous permettez, mademoiselle.”
    My cheeks flush, even though I have no idea what he said. Only the mademoiselle tips me off that it was in French. The French language is supposed to represent the epitome of romance, but he makes it sound downright kinky.
    I present a grateful smile and place my empty wine glass on the table as I take my seat.
    Trenton leans over my shoulder and brushes his lips to my ear. “Je vous en prie.”
    Goose bumps explode on my skin. On second thought, our physical distance over dinner could have its advantages for me if my objective is to keep a clear head as I ask my questions.
    Trenton sweeps across the room and takes his seat opposite me, his handsome face bathed in candlelight. I follow his lead and place a white cloth napkin in my lap.
    “This is a beautiful room.” I look up, taking in the pastel mural painted on the ceiling.
    “What was that?” Trenton’s booming voice echoes from across the table.
    I clear my throat and lean forward.
    “Uh, this room is very nice,” I say, slower and louder this time. “And . . . spacious.”
    Trenton shrugs. “I suppose it is.”
    Randall enters from a door in the far corner, wearing a tuxedo and pushing a shiny silver cart. I wonder if Trenton eats with this much fuss all the time.
    “Good evening, Mr. Merrick.” Randall gives him a nod and pushes the cart to my end of the table. “And it’s lovely to see you again, Miss Peters.”
    He pours me another glass of wine and places a bowl of soup on my plate before pushing his cart to Trenton’s place setting and serving him. Then he pushes his cart back through the doorway and closes the door behind him.
    Trenton takes a sip of his drink and follows with a spoonful of soup, so I do the same. It’s some sort of broth with a medley of diced vegetables sprinkled with herbs. The flavor is rich and fresh, unlike any soup I’ve ever eaten, meaning it doesn’t come from a can.
    Along with the crackling fire and steady metronome of the grandfather clock in the corner, the only other sound in the room is the clinking of silverware as Trenton and I eat and drink.
    Soon, Randall clears our bowls and returns with our entrees: grilled chicken breast with a heap of steamed green beans, corn, and peas. As the meal passes, I feel increasingly uneasy. I’m not sure why Trenton isn’t talking to me, though I did tell him I wanted to lead our dinner conversation.
    I take a sip of wine, wondering where to start.
    “So, uh, how’s your head?”
    Trenton’s fork hovers in front of his mouth. He lifts his eyebrows and sets the utensil back down onto his plate. “I was wondering when you were going to start your inquisition. I was beginning to think you were all talk, Sara.”
    Little does he know.
    “I just didn’t want to interrupt your meal, that’s all.”
    “You picked a good question —casual, neutral. It’s a perfect entry level inquiry before delving into a more detailed investigation.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I straighten my posture. “I’m a nurse and I treated you. It’s only natural for me to ask about your recovery.”
    Trenton slices a piece of poultry with his knife.
    “My head is fine.” He pushes the forkful of chicken into his mouth and puts that chiseled jaw of his to work as he chews.
    Lucky chicken.
    A mouthful of wine follows, his smirk lingering over the rim. “Next.”
    So he says his head is fine. I hope all of his answers aren’t as vague .
    “You’re the CEO of Merrick Industries, right? What exactly does your company