“I said it COULD be worse if it rained. That’s different.”
Another rumble. Closer.
“Inside?” Deb suggests.
“Inside,” everyone agrees.
We relocate to Dean’s dining room, which is weird because now I’m sitting next to him at his actual table, and somehow that feels even more cozy and intimate. I don’t have time to be thinking about the wordsintimateandDeanin the same sentence.
Cool. This isn’t awkward at all.
“First course,” Deb announces, setting down plates with the reverence of someone presenting fine art. “Beet carpaccio with microgreens and—”
“Pass,” Dean says immediately, not even looking at it.
“You haven’t even tried it.” I’m already irritated and we’re thirty seconds in.
“Don’t need to. Beets taste like dirt.” He sits back, arms crossed like that settles it.
“They taste like earth,” Ivy corrects, ever the peacemaker.
Dean gives her a look. “That’s literally dirt.”
“Just try it.” I shove a fork at him, and our fingers brush. Brief. Electric. I pull back too fast.
He takes the world’s smallest bite, his face going through an entire emotional journey in three seconds. Confusion. Disgust. Vindication.
“Told you. Dirt.”
“You’re such a child.” But I’m fighting a smile.
“Says the woman who brought a goat to my property. Twice.” He leans back in his chair, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.
“Steve is a different goat!” My voice goes up an octave.
“Steve is George in witness protection.” He takes a sip of water, watching me over the rim of his glass.
Deb clears her throat loudly. “Should I mark the beets as a no?”
“YES,” Dean and I say in unison, then immediately glare at each other for agreeing.
The tasting continues. Dean rejects half the menu on principle. I defend foods I don’t even like just to argue with him. Ivy watches us like we’re dinner theater, chin propped on her hand, utterly delighted.
“The salmon—”
“Too pink.” He pushes the plate away.
“That’s what salmon looks like!” I’m gesturing again, fork in hand like a tiny sword.
“Suspiciously pink.” He narrows his eyes at the fish like it personally offended him.
“It’s SALMON COLORED.”
“Which is suspicious.”
I throw a microgreen at him. He catches it midair with reflexes that are frankly unnecessary, pops it in his mouth.
“Tastes like disappointment,” he deadpans.
