Page 52 of Echoes of Him

And besides, I’m freaking starving, and I spent way too much money getting my hair done to go without a nice dinner. I’m thinking lots of wine will be ordered.

Oh, and you know what else is going to be ordered? Dessert. The most expensive dessert on the menu.

Because, fuck you very much, Ashton, and your preppy shirt, your stupid hair, and your big sighs.

For the fun of it, I might just order two.

The hostess smiles politely at us as we walk through the glass doors of Verdi’s, the new Italian restaurant on the corner of Twenty-Ninth Street that all the cool kids are raving about.

It’s been all over Instagram lately.

Lots of sleek marble and carved wooden furniture swathed in white linen tablecloths. The waitresses look like they’ve just stepped straight off the catwalk, and the guy working behind the bar is one of the pretty people, designer dreadlocks and perfectly placed tattoos peeking out from beneath a crisp white shirt.

The hostess escorts us to our table, while Ashton follows behind me, dragging his feet.

Speaking of feet, mine are already killing me. What was I thinking wearing heels this high? In my defense, I didn’t know we’d be parking three blocks from the restaurant and walking the rest of the way in. It seems my date doesn’t believe in valet parking.Tight ass.

But anyway, as I was saying, heels of this altitude are surely meant as a form of cruel and barbaric torture. I bet a man invented them. And being that I currently hate all men, we may as well chuck the shoe guy into the mix, too, because I’m just in that kind of mood, all thanks to Ashton, who by the way, has barely said two words to me since we got into his car—a boxy, older model Volkswagen.

Enough said.

And he’s said nothing at all since we started our trek to the restaurant. I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk a block back, and I swear I heard him chuckle under his breath. Not a single hand was offered.

Jerk.

We’re seated at a table in the far corner of the room, a candle lit area that’s very romantic and very secluded, and I get the feeling Ashton requested this table especially.Poor sap. The hostess tells us the specials, and then she takes our drinks order. Ashton gives her the once over when she swans away.

Miffed? Not a chance.

“So…uh,” he says, clumsily, when I make zero attempt at any kind of small talk. I’m already bored. I lay my napkin across my lap. “Andrea mentioned that you’re recently divorced.”

“Not recently. Two years ago.”

“Right.” He nods. “And you’re in the medical field?”

“I’m a therapist at a rehabilitation center.”

“What’s that like?”

“It’s great actually, I love it. It’s really satisfying, and I get a lot out of seeing my patients—” I stop talking altogether when I notice Ashton looking over his shoulder, his eyes darting around the crowded restaurant behind him, and I know for a fact that he’s not listening to a single word I’m saying.

Our waitress returns a few minutes later with our drinks, and then bless her heart because she completely turns her back on me, asking Ashton ifwe’vedecided whatwewant to order yet.

Uh.I don’t think so, missy. Rookie mistake.

“I’ll have the minestrone for starters,” I interject, in a rather loud and rather obnoxious voice. She looks at me, and her stunned expression pleases me to no end. “I’ll have the fettuccine for my main, and you can bring the dessert menu back once I’m done with my dinner.”

Shoving the menu across the table at her, I smile as sweetly as possible. Suck on that, sugar.

Ashton isn’t sure what to make of what just happened, but he orders his dinner and then thanks the waitress in a very over compensating, apologetic tone that makes chills seep deep into my bones.

I’m going to kill Andrea. Like seriously, kill her. I’m going to get my brother back first, and then she’s going to suffer a slow, painful death.

Cyanide, perhaps?

We make it all the way through two courses, and surprisingly enough, I haven’t throttled this guy yet.

I was right. Ashton is a total jerk.

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