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A valet finally glances up from the cabinet of keys he’s been busy rearranging. He looks at me, then looks at the Bronco.
“Not sure that will fit in our parking garage.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “There’s no street parking available here, so . . .”
The valet looks expectantly at me. “So?”
It’s all I can do not to climb back in my car and go home. It’s where I want to be anyway. I floated the idea of a night in to Reese. Thought it might be nice after her being away; we haven’t had a moment to really sit down and talk since before our meeting with Milly a couple of weeks back. I told Reese I’d make something hearty for such a cold weather—short ribs with polenta, maybe, or chicken with dumplings—but she insisted we try Bubble.
I dig some cash out of my pocket. “For your trouble,” I say, trying very hard not to add the word asshole at the end.
“Fine,” the valet says, taking the cash and the key.
I head inside, screwing an eye shut against the techno that blares through the speakers. I’m a curmudgeon, I get it, but this shit is loud and . . . not very good. House music, I think Reese called it.
The hostess informs me Reese hasn’t arrived yet. She cuts me a look when I asked to be seated anyway, and without a word leads me to a tiny table that’s approximately six inches away from the row of other tiny tables next to it.
I wait for a server to show up so I can order a drink. I need one. Badly.
I wait for Reese. And wait. Glancing at my watch, I see she’s already twenty minutes late.
Still no server. No menu. And still no drink.
Reese breezes in five minutes later, giving me a quick peck on the cheek before sitting across from me.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she says, looping the strap of her purse over the back of her chair. “I’ve been working on this model in Excel—”
“The Distillery’s projections for next year.” I grin. “I know it’s been giving you grief.”
“It’s actually the projections for the Blowfish. I’ve been working on the damn thing all week and I still couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it! Anyway, today on the plane I realized I’d been using LIFO instead of FIFO, so I ran home and updated everything and I think I got it figured out.”
“I’d say let’s cheers to that, but I’m still waiting on a drink.”
Reese grins. “Grumpy tonight?”
“Just thirsty. And hungry.” I set my forearms on the table and cross them, leaning in. “How was your trip?”
She tucks her phone into her purse. “Busy, but good. I really like it down there.”
“I hear the food’s amazing. Speaking of—do you know what kind of food they have here?”
“Not sure, actually. This place comes highly recommended, but I don’t think it’s for the food.”
My stomach growls in protest. “Why the hell would you go to a restaurant if not for the food?”
“You have to admit the vibe is pretty cool,” Reese says, glancing around. “It’s different for Asheville. I like it. Just give it a chance, okay? I hear the drinks are great.”
I manage a grin too. “I’ll go anywhere with you, anytime. I gotta strike while the iron is hot.”
Reese’s grin fades. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” I backtrack. “You’re just hard to pin down these days. I miss our date nights.”
“I do too.” She sounds sad as she says it, but before she can elaborate our server finally shows up.
“I feel like we should order our food too, no?” I ask, perusing the tiny menu of tiny dishes as the server writes down our drink orders. “Just in case we need to, uh, order extra.”
The server cuts me a look. “Extra what?”
“Food.” I hold up the menu. “Your dishes appear to be on the lighter side.”
Reese nods enthusiastically as she reads her menu. “Lighter sounds perfect. I hate going to bed with a full stomach.”
“Right,” I say. “We’ll wait, then.”
I’m so hungry by the time our drinks arrive that my first sip of beer—a juicy IPA from Highline, my favorite Asheville area brewery—almost makes my head spin. I’ll take it; when it hit nine o’clock, some lunatic turned the shitty techno music up even more.
“So.” Reese leans in, making my blood jump. Finally. We’re finally getting to the good part of the date—the part where we decompress. Connect. Have fun. “Wanna know what those projections turned out to be?”
I’m so stunned for a second—so disappointed—I can’t speak. “The projections for the Blowfish?”
“They’re good, Nate. Really, really good. The work I’ve put in, all the stuff that’s in motion—I think it’s going to pay off. While I was at it, I updated the numbers for the distillery too. They’re really good.” She frowns when I continue to sit in silence. “Are you not excited?”
