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“It will give them something to talk about and take the heat off of JD for a while, so yes, I think that worked out well. Are you hungry? I thought we could go and get some Chinese food.”
I blushed as I realized he had remembered I liked Chinese food. It was sweet, but he had taken me to a play because he knew that I would like it but he hadn’t watched any of it. It was so very kind of him and it didn’t surprise me that he was, but I wanted to do something he liked. If this was a date, then it needed to be treated as such, one where we both had fun.
“Let’s not,” I said.
Mac sat up and looked at me. “Are you tired? Not hungry? Did you want to go home?”
“No. I’m starving but I don’t want to have Chinese food, I want to go to your favorite restaurant.”
“What if my favorite restaurant is a Chinese restaurant?” he asked.
As he did, he put his arm on the back of the seat, leaned his head against it, and smiled at me. I could tell he was teasing me, and I loved that he could. With the stress of the paparazzi and with him not liking the play, I was glad we could move past it, or at least he wanted to.
“I know for a fact you are not a fan of Chinese food. You’ll eat it, if you have to, but it isn’t your favorite. The first job you ever had, they had it for lunch and you ate it every day for a year. It isn’t that you don’t like Chinese food, it’s just that you had enough of it to last you a lifetime.”
“How do you remember that?”
I could see he was amazed that I had, and I didn’t know how to tell him I remembered everything he had ever told me.
“It’s kind of a memorable story,” I said and added silently that he was a memorable guy.
“Okay, so no Chinese food. You really want to go to my favorite restaurant?”
“Yes. I do.”
“All right then. Martin, can you head to Midtown, Twenty Third and Lex,” Mac said to our driver.
“Right away, sir,” Martin said as he turned the car towards Midtown.
“Midtown? I thought you were more of an Upper East kind of guy.”
“I love all of New York, I happened to have a friend who introduced me to the place we’re going to, and it quickly became one of my favorites.”
“Why?”
“You don’t want to know what it is, or what type of food they serve?”
“No, I’m more interested in the why. What made it so special to you? Was it the food, the people, the location, the atmosphere? What?”
“Ah, the writer in you is coming out. You want to set the scene in your head,” he said with a smile.
“No,” I said but I wondered if he was right.
“You’re about to find out as we’ve arrived,” Mac said as the car came to a stop.
Martin was quick to get out of the car and open the door for me. Mac went and got out on the other side and was waiting for me.
“Thanks Martin. I think we have it from here,” Mac said.
“Are you sure, sir? I don’t mind waiting,” he said.
“I am and thank you. Have a wonderful evening.”
“Is this the portion of the evening where you take me to the back of a dingy rundown restaurant and my family and friends never see or hear from me again?” I asked Mac as we walked down the street.
“This is the part of the evening where things get a little interesting.”
He stopped walking and turned us so that we were standing in front of an Irish bar. I had no idea that there were even Irish bars in Midtown but there were so many all over the city, I should have known. The name McCarthy’s was stenciled in the front window that was actually a little lower than street level, allowing the lettering to be in the perfect line of sight of passersby.
