“This is normal for you?” I ask quietly.
“Unfortunately.” He’s trying to focus on the menu, but I can see the tension building in his shoulders.
A group of women approaches next, giggling and nudging each other forward.
“We’re so sorry to bother you,” their designated spokesperson says, “but could we get a group photo? We promise we’ll be quick.”
“I’m trying to have a private dinner,” Dex says, his patience clearly wearing thin.
“Just one? Please? We’re huge fans.”
“Sorry ladies, not tonight.”
Their faces fall, and I catch them muttering about how rude he is as they walk away.
“Jesus,” he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry about this.”
Before I can respond, another interruption. This time it’s a middle-aged man with his phone out, already recording.
“Dex Malone! Can you give a shout-out to my buddy Mike?”
“I’m not doing videos right now.”
“Come on, two seconds. Just say ‘hey Mike.’”
“I said no.”
“Why are you being such a prick? I spend good money on season tickets. That means you owe me.”
I watch something shift in Dex’s expression. The polite facade drops completely.
“Golda?” he says suddenly, turning to me with a grin that’s part mischief, part rebellion.
“Yes?”
“Let’s blow this pop stand.”
He stands abruptly, drops a wad of cash on the table, snags the wine bottle from the ice bucket, and extends his hand to me.
“Come on. I know a better place.”
I follow him through the restaurant, aware of every eye on us, every phone tracking our exit. The hostess looks confused as we pass, but Dex doesn’t stop to explain.
Outside, the cool Seattle air feels like relief after the oppressive attention of the restaurant.
“Well,” I say once we’re on the sidewalk, “that was dramatic.”
“I’m sorry.” He looks genuinely upset. “I wanted to take you somewhere nice, and instead you got a front-row seat to everything I hate about this job.”
“Where are we going with that?” I nod toward the wine bottle in his hand.
“I have an idea. Trust me?”
We walk toward the waterfront, away from the bright lights and crowds of the restaurant district. The city sounds fade as we get closer to the water, replaced by the gentle lapping of waves against the docks.
“There,” Dex points to a cluster of food trucks parked near the waterfront. “Much better.”
We order tacos and find a picnic table overlooking Elliott Bay. Dex produces the wine bottle and two plastic cups he somehow acquired from one of the vendors.
