Lulu Dark Can See Through Walls by Bennett Madison Page A

lawyer, totally adores me, and when Charlie told him I’d had a terrible day, he gave him the credit card and told him to take me out. It’s like impossible to get a reservation at this place, but Charlie’s family has all the right connections. The lights were dim and there were candles flickering everywhere. I was looking good, if I do say so myself. I’d changed into this slinky, electric blue dress that one of my crackpot mom’s fashion designer friends had given to me last time I visited her in LA. I paired it with my hot pink cowboy boots. I missed my purse a little—it would have matched so well—but even without it, I was looking fine. Charlie wasn’t too bad himself. As a joke, he’d donned his Gucci suit for the occasion and, more shockingly, a vintage floral tie. He’d even smeared some junk in his hair, which he never, ever did.
    When we approached the table, Charlie jumped ahead of me and pulled out my chair.
    “Your seat, Ms. Dark,” he said in his lowest baritone.
    “Why, thank you, Mr. Reed,” I replied, slipping into my seat. I grabbed my menu and a hunk of bread. I sat there for a moment, munching and trying to decipher the contents of the menu. It was puzzling. Is a sweetbread like a doughnut? I was pondering the question when Charlie looked up at me. “We look hot tonight,” he said, smiling out of one side of his mouth. “I mean, we look good together. I mean”—he blushed—“I like your dress. Never mind.”
    “Why, thank you, Charles,” I said, batting my eyelashes playfully. “I think you just said something very charming.”
    A relieved look came over his face. I held his gaze for a moment, but before it got too serious, we both erupted into laughter.
    As we were recovering, a waiter placed a plate of something complimentary in front of us. I examined it. It was hard to tell exactly what it was, but it appeared to be some sort of shellfish with sherbet on top. That seemed weird to me, but you never can tell when it comes to this fancy business.
    “We’ll have a bottle of wine too,” Charlie said to the waiter as he was about to walk away.
    “Would you like to see the list?”
    “We’ll just take whatever’s nicest,” Charlie said. “Red.”
    My eyes almost popped out of my head. “He means whatever’s cheapest, ” I jumped in. It was a nice gesture, but I wasn’t about to drink a five-thousand-dollar bottle of wine on Charlie’s dad’s tab.
    The waiter could barely conceal his smirk but nodded anyway. “I’ll pick something for you,” he said. We didn’t even get carded. Eating out with a guy who knows the owner certainly has its advantages.
    I had to restrain myself from tipping my chair back to get a good look around the restaurant. It was dim and noisy and elbow to elbow with people, and I had to lean in close to Charlie to hear him over the warm buzz of laughter and the smooth, pulsing bossa nova that hovered in the air. I craned my neck to take in the crowd and was almost positive that I saw several supermodels in different corners, all picking nervously at salads. I sighed happily as I felt an easing of the tension that had been sitting in my shoulders all day. Charlie was right. This was exactly what I needed.
    When our food arrived, we’d each already had a couple of glasses of wine. I’m not sure what it’s like to be drunk, and I don’t think I was, but I do know that I was feeling a little sillier than usual, tossing my hair a lot and fluttering my hands around when I talked, which I was doing a mile a minute. Charlie seemed to be in the same mood, his eyes wide with amazement at everything I said and his limbs suddenly very limber. After our entrees we both fell back lazily into our chairs. I’d been spacing out for several minutes, involuntarily thinking about my purse and Berlin and Alfy Romero, when I glanced up at Charlie again and saw him busily constructing an intricate little structure out of sugar cubes in the empty spot where his