“We’ve already established strong, capable women don’t intimidate me.”
“Does anyone intimidate you?”
He paused, frowning like he didn’t know how to answer.
I huffed. “You can just say what’s on your mind. It wasn’t a trick question.”
“But there will be trick questions?”
“There will be first date questions, and yes. Those can be tricky. Now tell me honestly, is there anyone who intimidates you?”
Before he could answer, the server arrived. I leaned back and allowed him to place a tiny square inch of something in front of me which he called an ‘amused bush,’ or that’s what it sounded like. An assistant waiter poured a glass of white wine for each of us while our waiter told us some facts about the ‘amused bush’ and the wine selection. Then he backed away, leaving us with our bushes.
“Did he say, ‘amused bush’?” Jason’s attention was on the bite-sized morsel of food set in the center of his gigantic plate.
I giggled. “That’s what it sounded like to me.”
“I was hoping you could translate.” He said this like it was an admission.
“Sorry. Our chef is from low country South Carolina. We serve good food, but the names of our dishes reflect the food being served. If you order shrimp and grits, you’re getting shrimp and grits.”
He regarded me warmly, like this information made him like me more. “I guess we should . . . eat it?”
Nodding, I considered how best to place it in my mouth. If I attempted to use a fork or spoon it might roll off the plate. “I’ve never eaten an amused bush before.”
Jason chuckled, muttering something under his breath.
“Pardon?”
“I said, the last bush I ate was yours.”
I exhaled a sudden, haughty breath, struggling with an odd mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. “Jason!”
“That’s Henry to you.” He winked at me and in the next moment he picked up the food with his index finger and thumb. He popped it into his mouth.
I did the same, albeit more primly, while I told the renewed busy butterflies in my stomach to settle. He and I traded a thoughtful stare as we chewed.
“What do you think?” I asked, reaching for the wine. Inhaling before sipping, I found it crisp and a nice complement to the amused bush, which, honestly, had tasted like a mini pork eggroll. “Oh, try it with the wine.” I lifted my glass toward his.
Dutifully, he drank some of the wine, more than a sip, less than a gulp. “It is good. I like it.” He appeared to be contemplating the food and wine pairing, like he gave the manner a great deal of thought before adding, “That’s good bush, but not as good as your b—”
“Jason, I swear, do not finish that sentence. Good Lord!” I leaned back and covered my mouth with my napkin, struggling to hide my smile.
He didn’t hide his smile. Nor did he moderate his laughter. Nor did he make any secret about how much he enjoyed flustering me.
“You are a bad man.” I said this to my empty plate, unable to look directly at him. The weight of his blatantly admiring stare felt too heavy.
“I am a bad man,” he said frankly, his tone pleased, but then added with a hint of introspection, “And you’re a good woman.”
Chapter Nine
*Diane*
“Grown-ups don't look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they're big and thoughtless and they always know what they're doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. Truth is, there aren't any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world.”
Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane
I gave up the idea of this being a real first date—whatever that meant—and decided to simply enjoy myself. We were five delicious courses in with no break to our easy, fun, flirty, interesting, delightful conversation before I remembered that he’d never answered my earlier question.
While he cut into a small portion of spareribs in brown mushroom gravy—which they’d called something else entirely—I seized on the opportunity to ask, “I still want to know something.”
“What’s that?” Jason slathered the piece of meat in the gravy, but didn’t bend to the fork. He sat straight yet relaxed and brought the bite to his mouth. I’d noticed all through dinner that he had excellent table manners. Not all men did, especially not men his age, who—in my experience—as a group seemed to lack or devalue self-awareness and felt entitled to slob-like behavior.
Jason didn’t hunch over his food. He didn’t place his elbows on the table. He didn’t pick at his teeth with his finger or his tongue. He lifted his wine glass at the stem, but didn’t make a big, pretentious show of swirling it to check the color or bringing it to his nose for an overt, loud sniff.
He was simply capable of and comfortable acting like a gentleman without artifice and stuffy formality, actually listening to what I said, and showing sincere interest while also teasing and flirting like a scoundrel.
I was honestly in awe of him, which was probably why I wanted to know the answer to my earlier question. “Does anyone intimidate you? Truly?”
“Of course.” He sent me a quick, wry look. “Would you find that hard to believe?”
Sitting back with my hands on my lap, my spareribs left mostly untouched because I was three bites past full, I studied him. “I would find that hard to believe. What would it take to intimidate you? I bet nothing scares you at all.”
“You’d be wrong.” The side of his mouth tugged upward, but his gaze—presently fastened to his glass of red wine—held no amusement. “I know some scary motherf—uh—” He cleared his throat. “Individuals. And if I didn’t fear them, then I’d be stupid.”
The stark quality to his admission made my heart beat faster. It was the first time all through dinner he seemed to be avoiding my gaze.
“Jason?” I waited until he looked me in the eyes and I swallowed at the remoteness I found there. “Are you in danger?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that question,” he said, and the ring of honesty to it made me tense.
I leaned forward, checking the dim restaurant behind him to ensure our waiter wasn’t nearby. “Do you think any of these scary individuals would ever harm you?”
“Yes.”
My attention cut back to his. “What makes you think so?”
“Because they have.”
I sucked in a breath. “Jason—”
He leaned forward. “It’s part of the job.” The words were flat, gritty with reality. “They hurt me. I hurt them.”
Frowning, I struggled for the right words. Why would he stay somewhere, working with people who hurt him? Who he hurt? “That’s not right.”
“Might makes right, Diane.”
“That’s not true for everyone.”
“It is, but in your world it’s called capitalism.”
I scoffed. “Are you saying you’re a communist?”
“Not at all. I like the order, the logic and predictability of might making right. I think most folks in this country like it.”