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“Yes, I know what I’d like to order,” I lied, opening my menu for the first time. Skimming it with my eyes and pretending like I knew what I was looking for, I ran my finger across the menu. “I’ll have the salmon with sweet potato fries. Thank you.” I folded it and handed it to him.
Adam’s eyes widened like I’d told him a puck was coming at his nose. “I’ll uh, I’ll have the steak.”
“Which steak, sir?” the server asked.
“Rump. Rare.” He snapped the menu shut and handed it to the server.
Mom, however, looked marginally amused. “I’ll have a Caesar salad with chicken, thank you. Dressing on the side.”
With that, he was dismissed. Even if he did open his mouth to ask about something else—probably our cocktails. I didn’t blame him. Mom was terrifying at the best of times. Horrific at the worst.
“So,” Mom said, taking a napkin from the table. Without looking at us, she folded it and set it on her lap. “Where did you meet?”
“In a bar,” Adam answered honestly. “She was the only woman in the general vicinity who didn’t look at me like I was a meal ticket. Turned out, she had no idea who I was.” He peered over at me, lips twitching into a smile.
Okay, wow. We really were going to skirt the truth here.
I picked up my drink and looked at Mom. “It’s true. He could have been that guy who plays for that Spanish team and I still wouldn’t have recognized him.”
“Which guy?” Mom asked, frowning.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “If I knew, I’d have said his name.”
“Ronaldo?” Adam jumped in, saving my ass.
“That guy. Isn’t he in Portugal? Why did I think he played in Spain?”
“He does play in Spain.” He was visibly trying not to laugh at me at this point. “He’s Portuguese, so he plays for Portugal, but his club team is Real Madrid.”
I looked at Mom again and shrugged. “There you go. All I knew was that he was hot with his shirt off.”
Mom sighed. “You really didn’t know who he was?” She motioned to Adam. “Even I knew who he was when I saw him.”
“When have you ever seen me watch sports?”
“You were awfully interested in baseball as a teenager.”
“Yes. They wear tight pants. Every teenage girl is interested in baseball, and it’s not for the sport.” I rolled my eyes and took a sip from the drink.
I didn’t know if it was the gin, the rhubarb, or the ginger, but this drink needed to die in a fucking house fire.
“Eh! Ack! Oh no!” I sputtered and put the drink on the table, wincing as a shiver took hold of my entire body. “Oh no. Make it go away.”
Adam burst out laughing, while Mom simply sighed at my theatrics.
“Poppy, it cannot be that bad,” she said, picking up her glass and bringing it to her face. She swilled it in the glass, sniffing it.
Good lord. It was a cocktail, not a vintage wine.
Mom took a sip. Instantly, her face contorted into the picture of absolute disgust, and when she set the glass down, I swear, she almost looked mildly offended that she’d dared put it in her mouth.
“Oh, dear Lord,” she gasped.
Adam shrugged and looked at his glass. “I like it.”
“You’re outvoted,” I quickly said as Mom waved her hand for the bartender.
Oh no.
My eyes widened, and Adam’s foot nudged mine under the table. Our eyes met for a brief second, and he raised his eyebrows.
No bartender came.
Mom took a deep breath and grabbed all three glasses with some extreme skill.
All right, not extreme, but a move so slick I’d drop it them all if I tried.
“What is she doing?” Adam whispered, leaning over to me and resting his arm on my chair, his eyes on my mom taking the drinks to the bar.
I turned, peering over at her. “Well, if I know her, and I do—”
“I would hope so.”
I shot him a quick glare. “She’s about to tear one of those poor guys a new asshole for daring to serve her something so vile.”
“But…the cocktails were requested.”
“Yeah,” I said, meeting his eyes. “That doesn’t mean she’ll be reasonable about it. Have you learned nothing since you got here?”
“Well, between the fact you didn’t know who I was, your sister’s issue with the seating plan, and now your mom with the cocktails… I think I’m getting there, actually. I’m seeing unreasonable as a female family trait.”
I blinked at him. “If your face wasn’t so pretty, I’d punch you in it.”
He grinned, twirling some of my hair around his finger. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“Are you sure? I’m pretty good with my right hand.”
One of his eyebrows quirked up. “I know.”
“That’s not—I didn’t. I mean.” I took a deep breath and glared at him. “Stop fucking with me.”
“I could, but I know you’ll fuck with me the second you get, so…”
