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“Where do you like to eat?” he asks, again, not angry but demanding all the same.
“This is fine, seriously, Dante. I’m good—”
“What do you eat, Delilah?”
“Normal stuff,” I blurt. “Burgers. Chicken fingers. Fries. I like salads, but nothing . . . fancy. Sandwiches? I don’t know. Not all sandwiches. Pizza without all the toppings.” I look up at the ceiling, where a gorgeous chandelier twinkles in the low lighting. “Why am I telling you that I essentially eat like a child?”
“Because I told you to,” he says, then he starts to move, scooting out of his chair and standing.
“Dante, what—”
“Two minutes, I’ll be right back,” he says, but his eyes aren’t even on me. Instead, they’re somewhere in the back of the restaurant looking at someone. Something?
Less than those two minutes later, he’s back, a smile on his face as he sits, grabs his napkin, and places it on his lap once more. “Okay, perfect. So, do you drink?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Drink liquor. Or do you abstain? You got a soda.”
“I . . . I drink. I just don’t drink when I’m out to dinner with a random man who picked me up on the side of the road.” A server comes over, clearing plates silently. “What does that have to do with anything? Where did you go?”
“I went to speak with a friend,” he says, lifting his drink and taking a sip before sitting back. “That’s smart, not drinking around strangers.”
“Yeah, I’m a genius, getting into cars with a random man who buys my time at a strip club and hoping for the best.” His eyes widen, and that smile grows.
“Fair, not the smartest. But next time you’re stuck on the side of the road, you’ll call me, correct?” he asks, and I stare at him like he’s insane.
“I don’t know you. I don’t have your number or—”
“That’s fine. Next time you’re in a jam, I’ll find you myself,” he says, and I don’t even have time to question it, to ask how on earth he would do that,whyhe would do that, because he’s already changing the subject and moving on with our pleasant conversation.
* * *
The next course comes, and I dread seeing what it might be. A plate is placed in front of both of us, a silver top on each, and Janine lifts the lids with very little ceremony before walking away.
I would laugh at how annoyed she clearly is, but I can’t. I can’t even speak. That’s because in front of me is a pile of freakingFrench fries.
“Are you good with breaking it up into courses? Or do you insist on eating everything together.”
“What?” I ask, confused, staring at the elegantly cut thin fries that I just know are going to be freaking amazing.
“Chicken tenders are next. I told Gino that he can send things out as they’re done, but—”
“You did this?”
“I didn’t cook them, no.”
“You had a five-star chef make meFrench fries?”
“Well, French fries and chicken tenders aren’t exactly on the menu, Lilah.” He says it like it's obvious, but that I didn't know that fact.
I just blink at him.
He’s so damned handsome, so damned elegant.
And he’s lifting a French fry from a plate with those fingers that I could imagine doing other things to me, eyes locked on mine.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I whisper.
