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“Touché.”
The right turn signal blinks, flashing light into the dark car with a comforting ticktock. We head off the highway toward a lighted row of restaurants and businesses. Looks like the next phase of this date will officially begin.
I’m going to have to bring my A game.
Chapter 22
DREW
I better watch it, or I’m going to slip out of professional territory.
As the hostess seats us at a table tucked in a corner, partially set away from the main dining room by a wall topped with ivy, I wonder if I should have chosen such a romantic spot.
Ensley looks around as if she’s never seen a place like this. Itisupscale. Maybe I’m showing off. Our Alabama town had nothing to compare to this.
The sommelier in a red jacket arrives to discuss our wine options. Ensley rests her elbows on the table, her chin propped on her clasped hands as she listens.
He smiles at her attentiveness.
“Are you a red wine or a white wine person?” I ask Ensley.
She suppresses a giggle. “The last time I chose between red and white wine, I was about to throw it on someone’s dress.”
The sommelier looks scandalized, and I bite back my smile. “Certainly red is ideal for staining a dress. Is that your preference to drink?” I ask her.
Her long lashes curl against her eyebrows as she gazes up at me. “Sure, let’s go with red.”
“The bordeaux,” I say.
“Very good, sir.” The sommelier steps away to fetch the bottle.
Ensley glances around the table. “There’s no wine menu. How do you know how much it costs?”
“We probably don’t want to know how much it costs.”
She shakes her head. “That’s crazy.”
“The occasional indulgence is fine.” But I know what she’s thinking. It’s probably hard to escape the mindset that was pervasive in her childhood. And Ensley and her family had it hard.
“So we’re celebrating you saving my clinic,” I say. “In a professional capacity.”
Ensley laughs. “I think we should straight up admit that our relationship, no matter what it will be in the future, will never be as professional as it would have been if we’d never known each other as kids, and never gotten trapped in a shed during a storm after being thrown out of the wedding.”
The waitress arrives right then and stops short. “I see I have an interesting table over here.”
A dark annoyance settles over me. I don’t like random strangers knowing my business.
“Oh, Drew,” Ensley says. “Don’t worry.”
She’s figured me out. And I don’t like that, either.
The waitress sets the evening’s menu, artfully typed on a simple cream-colored card, in front of us.
“These are tonight’s selections, curated by our chef. May I start you with our Italian escargot in wine sauce or perhaps a pesto bruschetta?”
“Bring them both,” I say.
She nods and steps away.
