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“You’re prettier in person,” he says.
I open my mouth to respond, but a soft laugh escapes as my face heats in a blush. Unsure how to respond, I mumble something that sounds like ‘thank you’ and go back to studying the menu. I worked through lunch, so everything I see sounds delicious. But I don’t think this gorgeous man wants to see me stuffing fries into my mouth by the fistful on a first date. I wonder what I can order and keep my dignity when it arrives.
“I don’t know about you,” he says. “But I’m starving.”
I laugh. “I was just thinking the same thing. I skipped lunch.”
“At least you have an excuse. I ate lunch and I’m still starving. I think anxiety burns calories.”
I shake my head. “If that were the case, I’d be a size 2.”
His gaze roams over me before coming back up to my face. “That would be a shame.”
I feel my face heat again, but before I can form a response, he goes back to studying the menu.
“Right now, I think I could eat one of everything on this menu,” he says.
I laugh, but I can’t help but agree. It’s a small menu with only 5 items, but I know they’re all meant to be shared. I think about my sister admonishing me to find someone spontaneous and adventurous. I decide to test Michael to see his response.
“Let’s do it,” I say.
He studies my face, a questioning smile on his face. “Really?”
I nod. “Why not? We’re both hungry. Why deprive ourselves?”
His lips quirk up into a half-smile and his gaze dips to my mouth briefly. I realize my words probably sounded flirty and part of me wants to call them back, but I don’t. Isn’t that why I’m on this date? Why I joined that stupid dating app in the first place? I wanted to find a match. I won’t know if we’re compatible unless I show him who I really am.
“Okay,” he says, waving the bartender over.
When the cute redhead walks over and smiles at us, Michael points to the menu. “We’ll have one of each, please.”
She blinks as she tries to decide whether he’s joking or not.
“Okay,” she says. “Anything to drink?”
Michael orders a beer before turning to me.
“An old fashioned and a water, please,” I say.
Nodding the bartender walks over to the computer to put our orders into the system before returning to make our drinks.
“Bourbon, huh?” Michael says. “Impressive. I don’t know many women who like the taste.”
I shrug. “What can I say? I’m one of a kind.”
He smiles. “That, you are.”
By the time the plates of appetizers arrive and fill the bar top, I’m convinced I made the right call by not canceling this date. Michael is funny, charming, and witty. The conversation between us never feels forced or stale. And he keeps peppering in compliments about me that I don’t hate. We don’t manage to finish all the food, but it’s a close call. I hold myself to one drink before switching to water. I need to drive home, after all. I notice that Michael does the same. But even after we’re finished eating, we linger, talking and laughing until well after happy hour ends. Finally, after the second time the bartender asks us if we’d like to move to a table for dinner, I decide it might be time to wrap things up.
“I should probably get going,” I say, my tone making it clear that I don’t really want to end the night.
He nods. “Me, too.”
He calls for the check and I swear I see the bartender heave a relieved sigh. I reach for my wallet to pay half the bill but he waves me away.
“Nope,” he says. “This is on me.”
“Are you sure?” I gesture at the numerous plates spread out on the bar.
