“You can’t keep going around telling people—”
He holds up his hands. “In my defense, I thought that explanation was a little better than, ‘I’m currently chasing the love of my life who’s pretending she doesn’t feel the exact same way as me.’ Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”
“Zach.”
“You're right. I'm sorry. I promise I won’t do it again.” He says it simply, without the grin, and it takes the wind out of my sails in the most infuriating way. “Sit down and eat something. You're hangry, and I'm an idiot. Both things can be true.”
My hands turn into fists at my side, and I clench my teeth. I want to say something so badly to him, but I’m too hungry to care at this point. I slide into the booth, slowing as I take in the used plates.
“Uh, you’ve already eaten.”
“I have.” He slides into the booth across from me. “I’d highly recommend the chocolate torte for dessert when you get there. It was delicious.”
He takes what I assume is his old napkin, flicks it out, and then places it back on his lap.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” I say, leaning back against the booth in disbelief. “So this table is finished. That means it’s supposed to be going to someone else.” I gesture toward the hostess stand. “There’s a line of people waiting out there, and I’ve just stolen their table.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Zach—”
I stop talking the second a waiter appears and starts to clear the plates. I don’t want to make a scene, but Zach is making it hard for me not to. I watch the waiter work. He’s stacking plates, sweeping the crumbs, and all I feel is embarrassment at how absurd this situation is.
When the waiter leaves, Zach says, “The bill hasn’t been paid yet, so the reservation isn’t finished.”
“You kept the bill open so I could eat?”
He looks up at someone, then back to me. I stare at him. That’s not how things work. Not when you have a full restaurant. You get a set amount of time, and you need to eat within it. He’s done something else to keep this table; I just know it.
Zach stares back at me, completely unbothered.
“That’s the plan. I’d also like a nightcap before heading to my room.” He picks up the drinks menu and flips it open. “Maybe I’ll try an espresso martini to broaden my horizons.”
“You’re unbelievable,” I say, shaking my head. I want to stay angry. I really do, but the idea that he’s doing this just so I can eat is kind of romantic—in a Zach kind of way, of course.
“I prefer resourceful, respectful, thoughtful, loving, kind...”
He trails off when the waiter comes over, thankfully. No one wants to hear him praise himself for the next ten minutes.
The waiter places a menu in front of me and recites the specials. I order a glass of red wine and linguine carbonara because I’m too hungry to argue. Zach orders his martini, and the waiter nods, writing it down before leaving us alone.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“You’re welcome. How’s your stomach?” he asks. “You looked pretty rough earlier.”
“I was not rough—”
“Honeycomb, you were hanging over that railing like a frat boy on spring break, and then when I saw your face, you were green like a cute little seasick frog.”
“Maybe I looked like that because I’d just realized my ex is stalking me.”
“Stalking? That’s a little OTT, don’t you think? I prefer to say I’m showing initiative. You used to like that about me.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it, and Zach’s entire face changes when he hears it. He doesn’t have to say a word; I can see the hopefulness in his eyes, and I hate it.
I hate that I like it. That it always makes my stomach flip.
I look away and reach for the glass of water just to give myself something to do. “Don't do that,” I say quietly.
