“I’ll report back with the results,” I say, with every intention of moving back to my side of the table, but his hand is on my waist.An old Patsy Cline song plays in the background and God, does it feelgood.
“I look forward to it,” he says casually with a gleam in his eyes. He pokes at my plate—a piece of chocolate peanut butter pie. “So, what does dessert for breakfast tell me?”
“That the pie behind the glass case looked too good to resist.” I shrug, forcing myself to inch away from him. Truth is, breakfast pie means I’m impulsive—and it reflects in my dating history. I have a bad habit of getting too close too fast when it comes to things like this. After our meeting last night, the way he carried me in his arms, spoke so softly into my ear—I’m set up for disaster.
“And so do you,” he says, and I’m sure I must have heard him wrong.
“Did you just … flirt with me?” I say slowly, as if that’s such an outlandish thing to happen on a date. It’s been so long since anyone has been interested beyond a “hey, u up?” text from a rando, which doesn’t count as much of anything at all.
“This is a date, isn’t it? That alright?” He laughs.
Before I can answer, my phone chimes. I cast a glance down and see Grams has already weighed in with the results. I anticipate one of her long-winded essays breaking down each ingredient, but instead it simply reads:
Grams: I think you have a keeper.
Huh.
I smile to myself, holding in a laugh. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, considering her favorite “fancy restaurant” is Cracker Barrel. I wonder if she ran this past the council of elderly ladies. By the time I get back, they’re all going to have so many questions. Regardless, when it comes to Grams, Gil’s classic order gaining her approval isn’t exactly surprising, but there’s a bigger question at play here. Should Gil stop flirting with me?
My cheeks flush as I meet his amber-hued eyes. He gulps, chugging down another glass of water, and yet I’m still enchanted.
“Unless … you already have someone waiting for you.” His voice is suddenly a low drawl, and he’s staring directly at my neck. Oh my God, does he think I have a hickey? I quickly cover my psoriasis with my hair and debate explaining.
“No, I’m… well, just trying to remember if I know how to flirt back.” I flush. “I think I might be bad at it.”
“I can be worse.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, bumping shoulders with him. “Try it.”
I watch as a wild grin spreads across his face; he’s accepted my challenge.“Hang on.” Gil grabs a packet of sweetener from the tray of condiments, handing it to me with urgency.
“What’s this for?” I ask, turning the small packet over in my hands. Considering the small stack of creamers I’ve already dumped in my coffee, I can’t imagine he thinks I’d want it any sweeter.
“You dropped your nametag,Sugar,” he says, and my stomach tightens while my lips curve into a smile.
I study the packet carefully, while trying—and failing—to keep a mostly straight face. “This is Splenda.”
But he throws his head back, the kind of laugh that makes you feel at ease, like you’re the funniest person in the world.
But I’m not; it’s not. Only the more he laughs, the more I laugh, and then I think it might be.
“Ah, yes, here’s yours,” I say, barely composing myself to retrieve a packet of Sweet ‘n Low. He gives me an approving nod, looking at me with such intensity it just feels right. My hands inch toward his and—
“That’s enough!” A voice shouts, and I jump, creating distance from Gil in the small booth, my hands clasped in my lap.
It wasn’t meant for us. Turning, I find a stern dad in the corner booth. His storm cloud eyes are set on his kids, who’d been giggling as they blew bubbles in their milk. The pair now sit as straight as boards. Unfortunately, so do I.
The tone may be deeper, but he sounds exactly like Uncle Orson did—back when he was alive, back during one of his bad days.
Being a famous musician, he was a public figure, someone who people would watch, take photos of, and the fans knew everything. They knew the way my parents died, how he became my guardian. Overnight his image of a “partying bad boy” turned carefully curated, something the label assumed would have happened with his marriage and becoming a father years before.
Uncle Orson was generous enough to take me in, take responsibility, donated to charities to stop drunk drivers, and was always gracious to fans. With so many eyes on him, it was important that when Jenna and I were in public, we were to sit still, be quiet, be good. We were to never make a scene—unless you’re an adult, then it’s apparently fine. There were plenty of tabloids about his meltdowns on tour, but with us? He was always the perfect family man—which was truesome days.
But this is now. Now, I’m on a date and can’t be distracted by the ghost of my uncle shouting at me from my past. I try to find something—anything—to focus on.
I flick open my phone out of habit. Grams has sent me several photos—mostly of raccoons, but there’s one blurry selfie in the mix, but that doesn’t help. I tap and drum, trying as hard as I can to not scratch at my skin, when suddenly, the lights of the claw machine near the door grab my focus. My gaze combs over the colorful plushies, and I finally find a lopsided clown fish to fixate on.
Until I hear the dad heave a sigh … and apologize.
