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His mouth curls, but his eyes seem watchful.
“Anyway,” I bluster. “We can save the champagne for our real celebration.”
He raises his glass to mine. “To your trust being released and Table making a fuck ton of money.”
“To the narrative being a blinding success.”
Our glasses clink, and we each reach for our forks. Troy digs in with gusto while I nibble a little injera bread. I was hungry earlier, but now I’m full of prebed jitters.
Forks scrape and glasses are sipped from, but we’re awkwardly silent.
Small talk, small talk! My kingdom for a little small talk!
“This is good,” Troy suddenly says as though tuning in to my inner monologue.
“I’m pleased you like it, because it’s the kind of food you can look forward to with me as your . . . with me living here. I know all the cuisines. Thai, Indian, Greek, Italian, Chinese. And by that, I mean I know all the restaurant numbers. Not that I expect you to be at home every night.”
“Feed me and who knows?”
My stomach does a little flip.
Troy reaches for his napkin, wiping the corner of his mouth. “I just realized, this is our first meal as a married couple.”
“Well . . .” I think I might be pulling a face like the drunk emoji, because he laughs.
“We are married, Clara.”
“Technically.”
“Legally. Got the ring and everything.” His eyes dip, and his brows pull down. “Just wild.”
“It is strange,” I agree. What’s even stranger is how he doesn’t seem mad about it. I mean, he isn’t ecstatic either. Maybe perplexed? Kind of How did I find myself here?
Same, friend. Same.
“What kind of a bartender were you, Gretch?”
“The kind that was in it for the tips.” I stick a little bread into my mouth.
“I’ll admit, I was impressed on Saturday. The way you handled the guys giving you shit was pretty cool to watch.”
“That was the best part of the job,” I answer. “Better than dealing with handsy, entitled suits. Bashing them over the head with your tray is frowned on by the supervisors.” I’m still feeling a little salty about that.
“About that asshole. He no longer works for Table.”
“Oh?” That feels . . . not horrible to hear. Even if he couldn’t have fired him just for me. “How did you find out who he was?”
“I asked questions. I’m pretty smart, you know.” He lifts his glass. “Fuck him.”
“And the Porsche he rode—drove—in on.” I touch the rim of my glass to his.
“I’d like to say he won’t work in this town again, but . . .”
“If his numbers are good, his personality gets overlooked.”
“We’ll see.” Which sounds a little like Not if I get my way. “What did you do today?”
“Unpacked. Looked around.” I slide him a pointed look: Don’t you dare comment. “Poured some wine,” I add, looping my fingers around the stem of the glass. “But mostly, I think I just got weirded out.”
