Mattheus stared at Selina for several seconds, and she raised an eyebrow.
The smell of pizza being cooked reminded him that he had responsibilities beyond admiring beautiful women, so Mattheus returned to the kitchen before the pizzas burned.
“Two minutes,” he repeated before disappearing into the kitchen.
“I heard you the first time,” Selina called after him.
He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him, and focused on the food.
Catwoman could wait.
That felt a bit blasphemous, but so did making eleven hungry Gothamites wait for their food, and the latter group was much more likely to complain.
He pulled the pizzas from the oven, cut them into slices, gave the wings one last turn through the sauce, and portioned the fries into a basket.
By the time he carried everything into the pub, Selina had taken a seat at the counter and was studying the drinks menu.
Mattheus delivered the food to the appropriate tables, endured Kevin stealing one of Laurent’s fries and the resulting argument, then threatened to replace their beers with non-alcoholic ones if they didn’t stop.
The threat horrified them into behaving, and he finally returned behind the counter.
Selina had removed her coat.
The black dress beneath it was elegant without being extravagant, fitted closely enough to make several of his customers forget how to talk.
Mattheus was made of stronger stuff.
“Sorry about the wait.
What can I get you?”
Selina glanced up from the menu.
“A glass of red, I think.” She tapped one perfectly manicured nail against the wine list.
“Your selection is rather specific.
Everything is Spanish or Italian.”
“I like to support local businesses.”
One of her eyebrows rose.
“Very local.”
“All right, I support businesses from places I consider local.” Mattheus leaned one hand against the counter.
“Also, I know Spanish and Italian wine.
If I filled the cellar with French bottles, I would have to pretend I understood half the words on the labels.”
“An honest bartender.
How novel.”
“I lie about many things, but never alcohol.”
Selina smiled and looked back at the menu.
“What would you recommend?”
“That depends.
Do you prefer something lighter and fruitier, or full-bodied?
Dry?
Smooth?”
She gave him an impressed look before answering.
Mattheus had learned about wine by helping out in vineyards near his home, though the Professional Bartending skill had expanded that knowledge a lot.
“Dry.
Full-bodied, but not harsh.”
“Tempranillo?”
“Surprise me.”
Mattheus crouched to retrieve a bottle from beneath the counter.
“A Rioja Gran Reserva,” he said, setting it between them.
“Tempranillo with a little Graciano.
It spent several years aging before it was bottled, so the tannins have softened.
Dark fruit, cedar, a little spice.
Full-bodied, but it won’t try to sand the inside of your mouth.”
Selina examined the label.
“You make it sound appealing.”
“That is generally the idea when trying to sell something.”
Mattheus regretted the automatic response almost immediately, it had sounded way less cheeky in his head.
One corner of Selina’s mouth lifted and he relaxed.
It would seem she didn’t mind his particular brand of smartassery
He opened the bottle and poured a small taste into the glass.
Selina lifted it by the stem, swirled the wine once, and smelled it before taking a sip.
Mattheus watched her expression.
“Well?”
“Very good.”
A stupidly pleased smile threatened to appear on Mattheus’s face.
Easy, Matty.
He filled her glass properly and placed a small dish of mini pretzels beside it.
Selina looked at them.
“Do all drinks come with snacks here?”
“Most of them, but I do reserve pretzels for my most intimidating customers.”
“Intimidating?”
“A little.”
Selina gave him a pointed look.
Mattheus nodded.
“Thank you for proving my point.”
She laughed and took another sip.
Mattheus picked up a clean glass and began polishing it, mostly so he had something to do with his hands.
“Do you always overdress when going to pubs?” he asked.
“Or is this a special occasion?”
Selina lowered her wine.
“Can’t a woman dress up without needing a reason?”
Mattheus raised both hands in surrender.
“Absolutely can.
I withdraw the question before I get that look again.”
That earned a warmer chuckle.
“I have an event at an art gallery in forty minutes,” she said.
“What kind of exhibition?”
“A private showing.
European art from the first half of the twentieth century, mostly.
The gallery is very proud of having acquired a Miró.”
“Which one?”
Selina named it.
Mattheus paused with the cloth inside the glass.
“From the Constellations series?”
Interest flickered in her eyes.
“You know Miró.”
“A little.
I had an art history teacher who took it personally if we called anything after 1900 scribbles.”
Selina chuckled.
They talked while she drank.
The exhibition included works from Picasso, Dalí, Chagall, and several artists Mattheus knew only by name.
Selina expected the collectors attending the event to spend more time discussing prices and ownership histories than the paintings themselves.
Mattheus admitted that he preferred Dalí’s earlier surrealist work to the pieces produced after the artist realized eccentricity was excellent advertising.
Selina disagreed—or pretended to—and argued that separating an artist’s public performance from his work was often impossible when the performance had been intentionally constructed to sell the work.
From there they moved to Picasso, whom Mattheus considered a terrible human being and an undeniably brilliant artist, which led to a brief argument over whether knowing too much about an artist could poison the art.
“You know considerably more than a little,” Selina said eventually.
Mattheus shrugged.
“I like reading.”
That was true.
He had also been an excellent student and studied art history in high school, but saying that sounded far less mysterious.
Adding that he often listened to podcasts and documentaries while gaming would make him sound even less cool.
“You should come with me another day,” Selina said.
“You would certainly make better company than most of the people there.”
Selina Kyle had just invited him to an art gallery—well, suggested she might invite him in the future.
Probably (definitely) as a joke.
For a very embarrassing moment, Mattheus forgot what to do with the glass in his hands.
He recovered before dropping it.
“Careful,” he said, placing it beneath the counter.
“That almost sounded like you were asking me out.”
Her voice dropped into a teasing purr.
“Would that bother you?”
Mattheus nearly choked on absolutely nothing.
A lesser man might have folded but he persevered .
“I would endure it bravely.”
Selina’s green eyes glittered with amusement.
Mattheus felt heat rise along the back of his neck and busied himself rearranging a row of bottles that did not need rearranging.
She was playing with him—he knew that.
As far as he knew, Selina’s type was tall, dark, handsome, and emotionally constipated.
Mattheus might qualify for handsome, but he was neither dark nor broody enough to spend his nights glaring at criminals from rooftops.
The invitation meant nothing.
“Matt!” someone called from one of the tables.
“Another beer!”
“Coming!”
Mattheus escaped before he could embarrass himself.
He filled the order, took payment from another table, and carried two empty plates into the kitchen.
When he returned, Selina had finished half her glass and was watching the room with a small, thoughtful smile.
As he approached, some of the playfulness left her expression.
“Thank you,” she said.
Mattheus glanced at the wine.
“For what?”
“A very good cappuccino.”
He understood right away and chuckled as he picked up the wine bottle.
“I was just doing my job.”
“Your job?”
“Chatting with customers and being nosy are part of the job description.
Listening too, when the occasion demands it.” He topped up her glass.
“Besides, I do love my tea.”
Selina looked at him for a second, then smiled.
“So I’ve noticed.”
She did not ask what Holly had told him, and Mattheus did not volunteer anything.
Whatever Holly had chosen to share was her business.
As far as Mattheus was concerned, what was said at his counter stayed at his counter.
“I should get going.
Half the reason to attend these things is seeing who shows up with whom.”
Mattheus nodded solemnly.
“Art.”
“Exactly.”
She slipped on her coat and placed a fifty-dollar bill on the counter.
“That is too much.”
“Consider the rest payment for the conversation.”
“Conversation is free.”
Selina leaned closer, and he could smell her perfume.
“Then consider it an investment in that invitation.”
Before Mattheus could formulate an answer that did not make him sound like an idiot, she turned and walked toward the door.
Half the pub watched her leave.
The door closed behind her.
Mattheus stared at it for several seconds.
Well.
That happened.
He had just spent twenty minutes chatting about wine and modern art with Catwoman.
Today was definitely a great day.
The silly smile remained on his face for the rest of the evening.
Unfortunately, his customers noticed.
The men who frequented the Crossroads had highly developed survival instincts when confronted by gangsters, corrupt police officers, and supervillains, yet none of those instincts warned them against annoying the person responsible for their food and drinks.
Frank arrived after work and had barely taken off his jacket before Kevin pointed at Mattheus.
“You should’ve seen him.
Pretty woman walks in, and suddenly Doctor Matt’s polishing glasses like he’s in a movie.”
“I was working.”
“You polished the same glass for five minutes.”
“It was very dirty.”
Frank sat at the counter and Mattheus poured him a beer.
“The woman in the black dress?”
Mattheus narrowed his eyes.
“How do you know about the dress?”
“Laurent called me.”
Mattheus looked toward Laurent, who immediately became fascinated by his beer.
Traitor.
Frank grinned.
“So, did you get her number?”
“No.”
“Ask her out?”
“No.”
“Learn her name?”
Mattheus hesitated.
“That is complicated.”
The men around the counter burst into laughter.
“You are all jealous,” Mattheus said.
“A drop-dead gorgeous woman chose to spend twenty minutes talking to me instead of any of you.
With those ugly mugs, you’re lucky women look in your general direction.”
Kevin placed one hand over his heart.
“Ugly?
You wound me.”
“He’s right,” Frank said.
“We’re jealous.
None of us can compete with those pretty hazel eyes.”
“Or the hair,” Laurent added.
“Don’t forget the cheekbones.”
Kevin leaned across the counter and pinched Mattheus’s cheek before Mattheus slapped his hand away.
“Such a pretty boy.”
“Touch me again and your next coffee will be decaf.”
Kevin recoiled.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Frank laughed into his beer.
“You know, if the bartending thing doesn’t work out, you could always become a model.”
“And if being an annoying bastard doesn’t work out, you could—” Mattheus paused.
“Actually, no.
You’re a natural.
Stick with it.”
That only made them laugh harder.
Mattheus rolled his eyes, but his mood remained far too good for their teasing to bother him.
He served drinks, traded insults, and closed the Crossroads at midnight with a smile still threatening to return every time he remembered green eyes and an invitation to an art gallery.
***
PSS: Objective #2:
PSSS: What did you think of Matty’s rizz?
***
Post-Chapter Note:
I underestimated you guys once again.
I seriously didn’t think it was possible, but you’re something else…
Over 1,000 PS and it’s only Tuesday.
Let me guess, if I make the next objective 2,000, you’re just gonna smash it by tomorrow, aren’t you?
Well, I refuse to underestimate you again.
Objective #3: 2,800 Power Stones.
If you manage to smash even that by tomorrow, I’m gonna go cry in a corner 😭
The extra chapter is gonna come out tomorrow.
Author.exe has stopped working.
See you guys tomorrow.