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Sebastian and I look at each other out of the corner of our eyes, and he rolls his lips inward as though to keep from laughing. I’m less successful, and a giggle bubbles out as I look again at what can only be described as a massacre. Somehow our pancake has managed to be both burned and completely raw, the salmon has been overworked to the point of looking like mush, and Sebastian got way too into grating the lemon, so there’s a fine film of bright yellow covering the entire plate in a very neon-mold-type fashion.
Keva looks up and shakes her head at me. “How have you learned nothing from me over the years?”
“Okay, now hold on,” I say, still trying not to laugh. “It doesn’t look pretty, but it tastes good. You always say that it doesn’t matter how food looks, as long as it’s tasty.”
“I’m a professional caterer. I have literally never said that,” she says. “But you know what, go ahead and test that theory.”
She hands us each a fork and lifts her eyebrows. Sebastian and I tentatively accept them. “You first,” he says under his breath.
“Chicken,” I mutter, and gingerly scoop a small bite onto my fork and lift it to my mouth.
“Oh God.”
“Good?” he asks, taking a bite of his own. He makes one chewing motion then stops. “Oh God.” He echoes.
I manage to chew and swallow the one bite, but I do not go for seconds, and neither does he. It’s too salty from the capers (we added extra), weirdly crunchy from the lemon seed we accidentally got in there, and just all-around way too mushy.
Keva only shakes her head and walks away, looking bemused.
“We’ll do better on the next one,” I say, gulping water.
“We certainly can’t do worse,” he says, drinking his own water.
Robyn explains the next wine—the sparkling from England Keva was raving about earlier—and we wait as she and Josh wander around the room, filling glasses before we get started on the crab cake course.
“Seafood was a gutsy move,” he says. “Aren’t you worried about the shop smelling like a fish market tomorrow?”
“Keva assures me it’s only bad seafood that smells, and that fresh seafood like she’s selected has no smell at all as long as we take out the trash immediately after.”
“You believe her?”
“Not particularly.” I pick up a cracker, which is the only edible thing on the table. “But I comfort myself knowing that if we go out of business because it smells like fish, the building owner will be the one who has to deal with it. Oh wait—you’ll just tear it down.”
His expression has been light and easy all night, but he tenses at that, and I actually regret it. On one hand, I want to remember that he’s the enemy, why he’s here in the first place.
On the other hand… I’m sort of enjoying myself. Too much.
“How about a work truce?” he says. “Just for tonight, no discussion of business.”
“Done,” I say gratefully.
“So,” he says with a boyish grin. “My turn for the invasive personal questions. How are things with your guy? Or girl?”
“Guy. And they’re…” I smile a little wistfully as I try to explain the strange combination of feelings I get when I think of Sir. The butterflies. The old-fashioned romance of it all. The giddiness when I have a new message.
The frustration that he’s not real.
“Ah,” Sebastian says. His voice is just slightly curt, and I look up in question.
“It’s like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“The dopey-in-love thing.”
“Dopey?” I repeat, outraged.
“Not dopey,” he amends quickly. “It’s just clear he’s important to you.”
“Yes. He is.”
“You said last time that it was complicated. What’s complicated about it? He doesn’t feel the same?”
I give him an annoyed look. “Love that that’s your first assumption. But actually… I don’t really know how he feels.”
“You could ask him,” he says, holding out his glass for Robyn to fill. I do the same, ignoring the blatantly curious look she gives us before moving away.
“Oh really? I could ask him?” I say sarcastically, with no heat.
“I’m just saying, men aren’t exactly known for their emotive skills in this area.”
“True. I should. It’s just…” I wrinkle my nose in befuddlement. “Why am I talking about this with you? I haven’t talked about him this much with anyone.”
“It’s just what?” he presses, turning and pushing the plate out of the way, leaning against the counter so he’s facing me.
“What if I’m disappointed?” I say it quickly, to get the words out for the first time ever. To him, of all people. Not to Rachel, or Keva, or Lily, or May, but to Sebastian Andrews.
“What do you mean?”
I blow out a breath, gathering my thoughts. “It’s hard to explain. But I’ve built this guy up so much in my head, and I think maybe the reason I haven’t pushed to move forward is that I’m worried fantasy won’t match reality.” I wince. “You think I’m an idiot.”
