As Eric rattled off the unlikely suspects, Amber was reminded of her experiences from the past few weeks, of people gathered in a room shooting out possible explanations and then being shot down. His process was so much like House's... but that couldn't be more than a coincidence. Amber knew everyone who worked with diagnostics at PPTH, and and Eric wasn't amongst them. Maybe he'd sat in on some of House's sessions and picked up a lesson or two. Yes, that must be it. Once he'd guessed, or once she told him, her work, she'd ask him if he had any gossip or tidbits on House that'd give her an advantage over the competition.

Amber's lips parted slightly as Eric touched the back of her hand, her wrist. Her fingers curled around his, stroking gently to explore his palm. His hand was about the size of hers, and even with the room's low luminosity, her pale skin contrasted strongly against his. They'd already had their hands around each other, during their handshake, and this was an entirely different affair. If he'd been firm there, here his gentleness prevailed, far more intimate. "I'm not giving you any more answers," Amber smiled, and squeezed his hand.

Amber frowned when the waiter interrupted them. Not only did he try to dump her in the worst spots, now he had no idea of timing? Was he trying to ruin her evening? Probably not, but it definitely smacked of incompetence. She read the label, Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, and her frown deepened. "Are you kidding me? What do you take me for, a tasteless hack? Come back when you've got something halfway decent."

Once the waiter was gone, Amber turned back to Eric. "I actually don't know much about wine," she confided. "But I don't trust him, he's done everything wrong so far. And I've found that I do get a better wine-- and service-- after I've busted their balls."