I snort a laugh. “I was going to say indulgent, but yes, it was also thoughtful.” I gawk at the food laid out and try not to freak out about what paying for half of this is going to do to my budget. Thank goodness I have points to pay for my room. I’ll take a to-go bag and eat my leftovers for lunch this week.
“Here you go.” He hands me a huge fork and carving knife. “For the lamb.” He points to the platter of sizzling meat in front of me.
“Great choice.” I eye the huge bone-in shank and my mouth waters. “I heard this dish is amazing. Thank you.” I take the utensils and try to ignore the way the brush of his fingers sends a jolt all the way up my arm and turn to the only neutral thing I can think of. “Kwame. The hostess called it out when we walked in,” I add when I can see him trying to remember if he told me.
He huffs a laugh. “Wow. Skipped right over that, didn’t we? Yes, I’m Kwame.” He grins and sticks his hand out in an exaggerated formal way. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise.” I take his hand. He’s got very nice hands. Soft and dry, but strong, warm, and smooth.
When he lets go, I shove my right hand under my thigh to trap the sensation of the touch. God, when’s the last time I felt anything when Stephen and I touched?
When’s the last time Stephen and I touched at all? I push that depressing thought away and focus on the very nice evening I’m having.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Sorry, I forgot. Everyone calls me Sin.”
He chuckles and washes down his food with a swig of Stella. “As in a transgression?”
I purse my lips and don’t hide my irritation. “No. As in short for my full name, Arsinoé.”
“Cool.”
“Is Kwame your real name?”
His brows knit together and he crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Of course it is.”
His voice loses some of its lightness and I curse my loose tongue. “I’m sorry. It’s just that, it’s a Ghanaian name, you’re obviouslynotGhanaian. I was—”
“You say that like you’ve seen my birth certificate.” His brows shoot up and his smile disappears.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I’m in a Ghanaian restaurant in Washington, DC, wearing an Adinkra pendant, my name is Kwame—I’m practically screaming it.”
I can tell I touched a nerve. “I’m sorry that I asked but…It’s just that all of those things could be true and you could be from Chicago.”
“Well, I’m not.” He takes a sip of his drink.
“Andbothof your parents are from Ghana?” Ghanaians are known for being among the darkest skinned people in West Africa and his skin is the color of caramel.
He sighs. “Yes, but my father’s parents were both half Scottish.”
“Oh, okay…So you’re Fante?”
“Why do you say it like that?”
I frown at him. “I didn’t say it like anything.”
“Let me guess, you’re from Ashanti region?” His voice has lost its edge and he’s got a teasing glint in your eyes.
“I am. Did my regal bearing give it away?” I grin, glad I didn’t offend him enough to spoil the mood.
He snorts. “No, your judgmental ‘So you’re Fante’ did.”
I laugh at his impersonation of me. “Why are you people from Cape Coast alwayssodefensive?” I ask with a teasing grin.
“Because you people from Kumasi act like we’re not all the same people.”
