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I glance at Drew. He and Jericho are both staring at me while Elodie refills her and Jericho’s white wine.
“I was just explaining to Drew that I’m kind of a picky eater,” I say to the perfect girlfriend.
“So you tell the chef how to cook your food?” she asks.
It feels like I’m being scolded, and I bristle. “I’m just one person. It’s not like I’m asking them to change the menu.”
“You kind of are, though.”
“Are you seriously telling me you never ask for a modification? Grilled versus fried, mayo instead mustard?”
“But you created a menu item,” she argues.
Drew turns to her, surprised.
I don’t back down. “Wanna know something else? I actually had three more questions I decided not to ask because I could tell he was getting irritated.”
“Could you, though?”
“I could. Wanna know the three questions?”
She throws up her hands. “Why not?”
I tick them off on my fingers. “Is the Alfredo more butter forward or Parmesan forward; do they make fresh pasta or use dried, and would they mind adding a splash of wine to the lemon and butter for the shrimp?”
“Jesus Christ,” she breathes. “Do you even cook?”
“No, but I’m an expert at dining out.”
“Jer,” Drew says, putting a hand on the back of her neck and giving it a squeeze. “Give him a break. He was born this way.”
Not only do I want to kick him underneath the table, but I’m so fucking jealous of Jericho’s neck right now, I’m a little surprised I haven’t walked out yet.
“I just think it’s rude,” Jericho says.
“Drew’s right,” Elodie chirps. “It’s just Ollie.”
Motherfucking check please.
21
DREW
I’ve never seen Jericho like this. In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never once seen her express negativity toward a stranger, much less dress them down in mixed company. She does it to me plenty, and Chris and Silas have gotten an earful from her once or twice, too, but this is different. She doesn’t like him, and I can barely believe it.
I mean I guess I can believe it. The Heir rubbed me the wrong way for years, until…okay I see the joke here—he started rubbing me the right way. But aside from admitting he’s a lazy rich dude, he hasn’t done anything else that would have drawn her ire.
When the food is delivered, her glare could burn a hole in Olivier’s plate. Initially, he digs in heartily, like he’s determined to enjoy it, but I don’t think he does.
And for that, I feel guilty, because I picked the restaurant.
Elodie, to my great displeasure, tells him at one point, “I think white wine would have been the perfect touch.”
Something in him seems to wilt at that. He puts his fork down and reaches for his wineglass, avoiding glancing at our side of the table. Meanwhile, Jericho mentions that a few of her friends are in the neighborhood having drinks.
Elodie picks up on the cue quickly, and with not-so-subtle relief says, “Yeah, we should probably get going, too.”
Olivier carelessly tosses three one-hundred-dollar bills on the table, and I almost protest, but decide not to. He won’t even look at me, and I hate that the most. He mumbles a goodbye and helps Elodie into her coat.
