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I toss my hair up into a glossy ponytail just as Oliver texts to let me know he’s here to pick me up. His reaction to my outfit is satisfaction enough, but he also peppers in a few compliments on our way to the bar.
“Seriously, where have you been hiding all my life?”
I flush and look away, wishing I could settle more into the moment and appreciate his words. I still feel anxious about everything with Luke. Maybe it was a mistake to stay away from the house all day. If I’d hung around and run into him at some point, we could have just had it out, talked and settled things, or he could have fired me and I’d be crying in an aisle seat on the Jitney, heading back to the city at this very moment. Either way, this lingering anxiety would be gone.
Once we have our drinks in hand, Oliver leads me to a table he’s reserved on the patio out front.
“They normally don’t do this sort of thing. Tables out here are first come, first served, but I know one of the bartenders pretty well. He did me a favor. You like it?”
“I love it.”
The table, yes, but the patio too. The pergola perched overhead has been overtaken by jasmine and purple vining flowers. The music playing in the background is acoustic and quiet, accompanied by the soft hum of chatter from neighboring tables. Candles burn low. Most importantly, the weather couldn’t be better. A perfect summer night.
I hold up my gin martini the moment we take our seats across from each other.
“To summer,” I say.
He grins and picks up his glass to clink it against mine. “To summer.”
Oliver looks spiffy in jeans and a black polo. His black glasses remind me of the pair Stanley Tucci wears—who, by the way, can get into my panties any ol’ time he wants. Unlike Stan, Oliver’s rocking a whole head of hair. It’s blond and trimmed short and sits on his head as neat as a pin. He’s not at all my type, which is fine because my type has not served me well in the past. Maybe a fancy-pants sommelier is just what I need to reinvigorate my love life.
Oliver grabs a few cocktail nuts out of the bowl on our table. “So tell me how your week has been.”
“My week?”
For some reason the question seems like it came out of nowhere. What does my week have to do with anything?
“Yeah, you know, work, social life, and so on,” he teases.
I reach for my martini and down a heavy sip. “Good, good. Nothing really to report. My life is pretty boring at the moment. Just been cooking nonstop.”
His eyes glitter with excitement. “Ah, tell me the highlights. What’s the best thing you’ve made this week?”
Oh, now we’re talking. I could do this all day.
“You know that fresh pesto I grabbed when I saw you at the market the other day?”
He nods eagerly.
“I made a pesto shrimp and artichoke linguine that made me want to weep.”
“Oh my god. Tell me more.”
“Sweet potato fries alongside bison burgers, cooked out on the grill, of course.”
He legitimately looks turned on, and I can’t help but tease him about it.
“Don’t tell me you have a food fetish.”
He rears back. “What?” Then he shakes his head vehemently. “I don’t even know what that is.” He sounds seriously offended.
I can’t help but laugh, which makes him double down in his offense.
He adjusts his glasses as he insists, “I just like good food. Is that so weird?”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I was just trying to be funny, which I see now is not my forte. I’ll stick to bison burgers.”
The conversation is awkwardly stilted after this, as if we’ve lost our trust in each other. I can no longer count on him to take a joke, and he can no longer assume I won’t bring up weird fetishes. Though, come on, the lady doth protest too much, am I right? Someone search this guy’s computer, stat.
It’s a while before we recover from my gaffe, but we do. We bond over our shared desire to take a trip out to California to eat at The French Laundry.
“I would give my right lung for a meal with Thomas Keller.”
Oliver nods. “I completely agree.”
I reach for a few nuts, trying to strategically get as many cashews as possible without being obvious about it. Seems rude to pick out the best ones, no? When I glance up again, Oliver’s attention is across the street. His head is cocked to the side, studying something.
“I recognize that guy over there. He’s that baseball player who just retired. God, what’s his name. I see him at the market sometimes.”
I follow his gaze as he snaps his fingers, trying to jog his memory.
Behind me, on the other side of the street, Luke and Harper stand just outside an ice cream shop with a few middle school-aged boys gathered around them. The boys are jumping up and down, excitedly waving their phones in the air.
