“Well, as long as there’s a vegetarian option on the menu, I’ll be okay.”
He shoots me an oh shit look. “You’re a vegetarian?”
I laugh. “No, but I couldn’t resist teasing you.”
“Not cool, Opal, not cool.”
“Sorry, but you didn’t actually ask me.”
He winces. “I didn’t?”
“No, you didn’t. But don’t worry, when your inner caveman comes on too strong, I’ll be sure to mention it.”
He seems at a loss for words and I like it that I’ve flustered him a bit. It’s endearing. Repressing my smile, I push past his sudden quiet by asking about his day at work, and he tells me about his newest employee/best friend’s flagging interest in working a nine-to-five job.
The restaurant isn’t far and has a definite family vibe. As we park, I wonder if it’s his way of underlining our relationship status again. If it is, I’m not complaining. I could do with the reminder since following him through the parked cars, I can’t tear my eyes away from his broad back that so nicely fills out the shirt he’s wearing.
Inside, the waiting area is busy, but he’s got a reservation. I almost want to groan. Why can’t he be lame like most guys and not have any forethought? Without even knowing it, he’s trying to edge his way past the friend-zone barriers I’ve got erected. This would be so much easier if he were less appealing.
We’re seated in a booth near the back. I open my menu and am about to ask what’s good when he says, “Before I forget, which movie do you want to see?”
“Whatever you want is fine. You’re the one with the thing for adult movies.”
He laughs. “Let’s see, there’s . . .” He comes around to my side of the booth, forcing me over on the bench seat, and damn, he smells like heaven; not cologne or anything, just human skin – very warm, very close, very male. With all the distraction, I’m not even sure which movie I’m agreeing to see.
He lowers his phone. “I already know what I’m going to get,” he prompts, implying I should be staring at the menu instead of at him. Right!
While he’s getting the tickets, I go over the menu. Clearly, he’s been here before because he recommends a few things as I go.
Our waitress shows up wearing a straw cowboy hat and a red checked button down shirt tied at the waist. “Evening, y’all. Can I start you off with some drinks?” Even if she’s playing a part, I like her right away.
“No, thanks,” I say, but then amend with, “Well, maybe an iced tea, please.”
“A Coke for me,” Scott adds. “And we’re ready to order.”
We are?
He rattles off his choice and ends with a request for whatever extra spicy hot sauce they’ve got, and then turns to me expectantly.
Every good-natured caveman comment that I was going to tease him with disappears the instant our eyes meet. He’s way too close to me. I wonder if he would agree to let me sit here all night and gaze dreamily at him while he whispers filthy dirty nothings into my ear.
“El?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah, I’ll get this one,” I say, pointing to the menu. Good thing, I’d mostly made up my mind before my brain turned to mush. Honestly, I’m expecting him to call me out on my gawping. Something along the lines of a cheese-filled ‘like what you see?’ Instead, he doesn’t appear to register my attraction to him at all.
Thank goodness.
“I don’t mind if you have a drink,” he says once our server is gone.
Finally, my brain comes back on-line. “Oh, no worries. I don’t drink anymore.” I smile at him wryly. “It’s part of my self-improvement project. No Piper. No men. No alcohol.”
His scrutiny goes on a bit too long for comfort. I’m practically squirming in my seat when he finally asks, “How long’s it been since you’ve had a drink?”
My mind pinballs through all the ways I can avoid answering this question. I don’t relish the prospect of admitting that alcohol is a problem for me to this man who seems to have his whole life figured out. But evasion would be a classic Piper move, one that Ellie doesn’t make. I’m not interested in tailoring my responses to impress him. He can take me as I am, or not at all.
“It’s been ten months,” and then to make sure he knows I’m serious, I tack on, “and eleven days.”
His eyebrows go up. “That’s . . . that’s impressive.” Normally that kind of comment would irk me, but something about his tone tells me he’s not being condescending. Something I confirm when he adds, “I wish my mom had that kind of will power.”
Sympathy for both him and his mom floods my system. “Your mom drinks too much?”
His sigh is both angry and resigned. “She’s on and off the wagon constantly.”
We’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks and this feels really personal, so I’m really hoping my next words don’t come across as trite or patronizing. “That must be hard, not being able to depend on a parent. They’re the one person who should always have our backs.”
The shadows that fall over his features tells me how close I’ve come to the truth. “Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s why I almost never touch the stuff. My daughter deserves better, and so do my niece and my sister.”
There go my ovaries again, melting down to the soles of my feet.
His lips quirk at the sappy expression on my face. “Don’t worry, El. You can put your tiny violin away. My grandmother has always been there for me, for all of her grandchildren.”
Just then, the waitress comes back with our drinks.
“Well, I propose a toast,” I say, picking up my glass once she’s gone again.
“All right.”
“To learning from the past, and keeping the future on the right path.”
We clink glasses. “How did you get so wise, Opal?”
“Oh, you know, all that time I spend practicing my pole dancing routine allows for some seriously deep thoughts.”
Around the glass, his lips curve into a smile. And then his gaze, which until this point has remained firmly above my neck, slowly slides down to rest briefly on my breasts before he sets his glass back down.
My brain screeches out: Alert! Alert! Okay, back to the serious conversation. “So your mom is the reason you take care of your niece and your sister as well as your daughter.” I don’t phrase it as a question, giving him nothing to refute. We’re past that in my opinion. “Did you ever take your niece to get glasses?”
His reluctance to talk about the girls eases with the distracting question. “Yeah, I did. Turns out my sister needed them too. I don’t know why she didn’t say anything.”
“Is she the sensitive type? She probably didn’t want to be a burden, especially if there’s already a lot going on at home.”
He seems genuinely distressed by the idea. “I hope that’s not what it is. Around our house, it’s the squeaky wheel that gets the grease.”
“It was the same in my house when I was growing up. I was such a pain in the ass at home that my younger sister always came across as the perfect angel.”