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“It’s going to be picked over—look at those rug rats out there.” Her upper lip twists into a sneer. She’s not a fan of screaming kids—duly noted. I follow her finger and only find an elderly grandmother leaning on a cane, yelling at a six-year-old girl across the buffet table, who is sticking her bare hands into a pile of garlic mashed potatoes.
My fingers drum across the top of the table, agitation growing by the beat. Never come to the buffet at this hour—it’s a rule I’ve never had to break until tonight.
“Jasmine,” Adrienne whispers in a voice loud enough for us all to hear. “Stick with me—they’ll have a new tray out in seven minutes. I’ll show you where to stand to get to it first. Also, they charge like twice as much for menu items. It’s the same stuff.”
Adrienne gets it. Everyone that comes to a buffet gets it. Everyone except Jasmine.
Jasmine’s eyes ricochet from Adrienne to me and back again. “If you’re worried about the price, I can pay the difference. I have…”
I slide out of the booth and stand, hands pressed to the tabletop. “Trent, let’s go.” My family is not as rich as other families in Mesa, but I will not let my finances become a discussion point. “Adrienne can keep Jasmine company while she orders. They’ll take forever, and we’ll be on our second plate by then.”
Trent hesitates. Adrienne gives him a slow nod of approval, and he slips out the booth.
I straighten up and don’t dare look in Jasmine’s direction. Trent wraps a playful hand around the back of my neck and pulls me into his side. “Someone’s hangry.”
If only I were—that would explain why I nearly bit Jasmine’s head off.
“When the server comes, order me a refill of my Arnold Palmer,” Trent says to Adrienne.
“I got you.” She nods and winks at him, and I want to kick him in the shin. That look, those words, are supposed to be directed at me, and me alone.
I elbow Trent, and he stumbles, laughter escaping his mouth. “One second.” He turns to face a beaming Adrienne. “What can I get for you, my dear?”
Her lips part, but I pull Trent by the arm before she can answer. “I know exactly what she wants.” I direct my next line to Adrienne. “I got you.”
I turn. This is not me. I’m the nice guy who doesn’t get upset. Yet, all I hear are drumbeats of trouble growing louder and louder in my head. This date had disaster written all over it from the start.
It’s headed for the cliff, and I have no clue how to stop it.
9
“What am I doing wrong?” Jasmine tugs at my wrist from across the table the second the boys turn their backs.
She delivers the question with a mixture of frustration and desperation. She’s ignored every piece of advice I’ve given up to now, and it has been a disaster, but I wasn’t even sure she noticed. “It’ll be fine. Like Trent said, Lucas is just hungry. Once he gets some food into his system, he’ll spark right up.” I try to ease her burden, knowing if I dump the truth on her, she’ll spiral out of control.
“Start by putting on your glasses. You nearly ordered a cemetery plot.” I point to the ads on the bottom of the menu.
Jasmine scrambles to open her clutch. “That’s ‘cause I’m getting buried here. Can you help a sister out?” She slips on her glasses, adjusting the rose in her hair.
“Now, isn’t that better? Glasses suggest intelligence.”
“Nope, they scream broken eyes,” she mutters and scans the menu. “Wow, I was about to order a tooth whitening for dessert. I’m such a disaster.”
I feel for Jasmine. She moved to Mesa after graduation for a job. Work isn’t the issue; she’s kicking butt at her job. She’s struggling to blossom socially, the opposite of how she lived in college.
Jasmine lowers her head onto one shoulder and focuses her attention on Lucas. I steal a quick glance; Lucas is filling a plate with slices of fresh-baked turkey. Trent is nowhere to be seen. Lucas steps around two kids in a tug-of-war battle for a turkey leg, and a joyous smile rushes across his handsome face. He spins around the kids, scoops up a heaping spoonful of corn stuffing, and forgoes the rest of the table, pivoting toward the salad bar. I recognize this move; he’s making my plate. I load my stuffing with raisins and slices of green apples. Lucas teases me about it but always prepares it just the way I like it.
“When he comes back, find a way to mention your mom’s poodle. Lucas loves dogs.” I give her a get-out-of-jail-free card.
“Bark Twain? She hates me,” Jasmine bites back.
“Don’t tell him that last part,” I lobby. “Don’t force things. Relax and be…” I want to say yourself, but that’s exactly who she’s been. “Fun.” I straighten my back as Lucas skips toward the table. He holds the plate high over his right shoulder as if he’s a professional waiter, a bright smile on his face, eyes glued to mine.
Lucas has always been a handsome, dreamy-eyed, and an ever-present inner joy in his spirit type of guy. It’s ridiculously attractive, and every second you spend in his presence, you want to extend for another and another and another.
I bite my lower lip to prevent the giggle that builds in my chest. It’s the goofy, relaxed, I can be all I am around you Lucas I love so much. In a restaurant full of people, officially on a date with another woman, he remains what he always has been—my Lucas.
“Here’s your triple A Thanksgiving plate for one,” he jokes, kneeling by my side of the table, slipping the plate in front of me.
