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Greg wants to ask the woman seated next to him in the black sedan, “Do you know your boss uses your name for online dating?” That conversational starter won’t lead anywhere good. It’s not her real name anyway, and he’s sure Mycroft isn’t actually posing as a woman online to get dates. At least, he hopes not.
His mouth is dry. He wipes his palms on his trousers - subtly, he thinks, until a handkerchief appears in his line of vision. He half-smiles at Anthea, who is busy texting one-handed. He mumbles, “Thanks,” wipes his hands, and tucks it in his pocket.
At the restaurant, Greg is escorted to the table by a man in a suit that probably costs more than anything Greg owns, including his car. Mycroft stands, smiling, but somehow lacking his usual self-assurance.
Greg takes his seat, and there is immediately someone at his elbow, filling his wine glass.
“I took the liberty,” says Mycroft. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I’ll confess, I don’t know the first thing about wine.”
Mycroft nods, but says nothing. Greg peruses the menu. Every item includes a three-line description, and he still has no idea what they are. He glances at Mycroft, whose eyes flick up to meet his.
“The ravioli is delicious, if I may be so bold."