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“A bottle? Don’t you have to drive?”
His lips twitched. “I don’t really drink that much, but I’ll have a small glass. You can take whatever is left back with you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I saw you drinking at the bar.”
“I go in once a week to see Penny for a beer. It’s pretty much the only time I drink.” He paused. “I have a difficult relationship with alcohol.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Not me,” Max said quickly. “Well, apart from a couple of wayward university years.”
Who didn’t have those?
“Family things.”
I nodded slowly. I wasn’t going to ask. No matter how badly I wanted to—it was clearly a sore spot for him, and he hadn’t even needed to tell me that at all, so I wasn’t going to push it.
I wanted to, though.
But I didn’t.
Look at me with the self-restraint.
Go, Ellie.
“So what do you usually get here?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Steak.” Max smirked.
“You are not being very helpful,” I pointed out.
He laughed. “You asked, I answered. Let me guess, you’re not really a steak eater.”
I grimaced. “Is it that obvious?”
“Little bit.” He ran his tongue over his top teeth, grinning. “Turn the page. They have a pasta menu and a salad menu.”
“Do I look like I eat salad?”
“That feels like it’s a question I shouldn’t answer.”
“So I don’t look like I eat salad,” I replied, doing everything I could to keep my face straight.
He blinked at me. “Never mind. It was a trap either way.”
I broke far too easily, and I dipped my head to hide my laugh. “I’m just messing with you. I actually enjoy salads, but they’re much better with a baked potato dripping in butter, so it kind of cancels out all the lettuce.”
Max shook his head with a sigh. “And everyone wonders why I don’t date.”
I grinned as the wine was brought over. “I’m sure it’s really not that bad.”
“Are you ready to order?” asked our waiter, cracking open the bottle of wine.
Max looked at me with his eyebrows raised.
“Oh, I’m sorry, give me a second,” I said, turning the page of the menu to the pasta section.
There we go.
