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“I’m thinking of the short ribs in the chipotle maple glaze,” Keith says brightly, picking up the menu.
“You’re a brave man to wear cashmere to a rib joint.”
I earn a brilliant white smile. Serial killer, I think again.
“Flora, most would consider me a brave man just for sharing a table with you.”
Endearing, too. Dammit.
“I bought a new knife,” I say.
“For my side dish, I’ve picked sweet potato fries. And you?”
I scowl at him. “Cole slaw.”
“Seriously? No one chooses slaw over fries. Now you’re being contrarian.”
I scowl harder.
He waggles his smartphone. “I can bring up studies if you’d like: Slaw versus fries and those who lie about their innermost desires. Don’t make me go all nerd on you. You know I’ll do it.”
He would, too. Charming, endearing, and smart. Bastard.
I return to studying the menu. I’m anxious and uncomfortable. My hands, holding the menu, appear foreign to me. My nails clipped short, no buff or polish. My palms ridged in calluses. I have practical hands, I tell myself. Capable hands. But practical and capable for what?
I still don’t know what to do with a man like Keith. Who’s obviously interested in me, but also patient and understanding. Sometimes, he even says exactly the right thing, except instead of making me feel better, it makes me suspicious. He’s too knowledgeable, too understanding.
They say Ted Bundy was very persuasive, as well.
“Ribs and sweet potato fries,” Keith says.
“Chicken and slaw,” I counter.
“Anything to drink?”
I shake my head, point to my water. I rarely drink. He’ll order a beer, but generally only one. A consideration for my abstinence or because he’s just as big of a control freak as me? This is what dating is supposed to be all about. Getting to know each other. Determining the answers to these questions. Who is he really? Who am I really? And even more intriguing, who might we become together?
I swear to God I’m sweating through my T-shirt and I’ve already lost my appetite. Serial predators I can handle. This evening, on the other hand, might be the death of me.
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl named Flora who laughed and flirted with all the boys. And now?
My phone vibrates. Saved by the bell. I yank it out of my pocket, desperate for the distraction. A moment later, however...
I glance up at Keith, frowning.
“You have to go?” he asks. He doesn’t bother to mask his disappointment.
“We both have to go.”
“Both?” He sits up straighter, clearly intrigued.
I hold out my phone to show him the text. “Sergeant D. D. Warren. She wants to meet both of us. Immediately.”
Keith throws cash on the table, grabs his leather jacket, and rises to standing before I can even push away from the high top. In his face, I see the same spark I feel in mine. The thrill of the hunt.
He really is perfect, I think.
And find myself reassured by the subtle pressure of the new blade pressing against my lower leg as I follow him out of the bar.
