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“Your table is ready.” Luckily, the elegant hostess saved me from further fumbling for words as she approached with two leather menus. She led the way to a cozy little nook with rich, tufted upholstery. The place had terracotta walls, low lighting, carefully chosen art, and chandeliers with well-spaced tables, contributing to the luxe feel.
“This is nice,” I said as we took seats across from each other. Almost too nice, but I didn’t add that. The place was like my sweater, too soft and cozy and pretty. Definitely a date place, with lots of couples seated at nearby booths and small tables draped with white linens. A few tables had two buddies or two women. Other friend pairs, maybe? Oh wait. The buddies touched hands before clinking glasses. Yup. Another couple.
I bit back a groan. It was Valentine’s Day. It made sense that everyone but us was paired up. Hell, even the menu was designed for love.
“You’ll see that our usual menu has been replaced by a special tasting menu for two,” the server explained as he arrived at our table with goblets of water. He had a low ponytail, small earrings, and a tendency to wink in odd places. “Plenty of small plates designed for sharing.”
“That sounds fabulous.” Malik smiled widely. “A chance to try more things.”
“Sure.” I nodded. It seemed a bit too date-like, but not having to pick something off the menu was a fun novelty, and I deferred to Malik’s obvious enthusiasm. Venus had always said, “Order for me,” like I was supposed to read her mind.
Once I got over the too-cozy vibe, watching Malik choose which options was fun. He mused over this choice or that one, conversational but not requiring decisions from me. He also seemed to know his way around a bottle of wine, discussing potential drinks with the server before settling on the recommended cocktail for the appetizers and something red and exotic-sounding for the meal.
“My mom would love this place,” I said for lack of anything better.
“Oh? Is she a foodie like my mom?” Malik’s expression changed from intent on the menu to a fondness that softened his usually rugged features. “Mine has dragged me to finds all over the world.”
“World?” I’d wanted a polite way to ask Malik about his heritage for a few weeks. He had a vaguely East Coast accent, the fast speech of DC or New York, but he’d referenced travel outside of deployments a couple of times.
“Mom was born in Iran, came to the US to marry my dad, who was in medical school at the time. Long story, but she stayed after they divorced and became a professor of International Studies. As a single mom, she took me along to various conferences from Prague to Bahrain to Cairo.”
“Neat.” I took the clue not to press about the divorce details. “Traveling with her sounds fun. All I ever got taken to was football games.”
“Your parents big fans?”
“You could say that.” I purposely hadn’t mentioned my folks to many at A-List. Duncan knew because he knew everything, but he wasn’t the type to gossip about family stuff. “My dad is Aaron Haskins. He was a tight end for a variety of pro teams. We moved a couple of times before he retired to Malibu.”
Malik’s eyes went wide with recognition and a bit of the surprise I was more than used to when people heard the family connection. “Yeah. I’ve heard of him. He’s a big dude, right? One of those guys built like a fridge but somehow still super agile, right?”
“Yup.” I didn’t bother smiling. Malik might as well point out the very obvious height difference or ask if I was adopted, which was such a frequent question I had stock answers at the ready. “My mom’s a five-foot-one former cheerleader. I take after her and her brothers, and I was also a preemie. Took me a while to catch up on the growth charts.”
Unlike Megan, who was five-ten with antelope legs, and Brian, who was six-three and built like my dad, my mom was known for being super cute and petite. Like me. Even Megan had a couple of inches on me, and I’d spent twenty-odd years trying to out-perform my height.
“Ah. I’ve got my mom’s eyes and my dad’s tendency to get thick around the middle.” Malik laughed like his muscular build was as much a headache as my height. He wasn’t as tall as Brian or my dad, but he definitely had Megan beat. But unlike other guys near six feet, Malik never made me feel small or jealous of his bulky muscles.
“You’re not too thick.”
“Thanks,” he said as our cocktail and appetizer selections arrived, a trio of small plates, each with only a few carefully garnished bites. “You first. Try the sweet potato puff.”
