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“Yes.”
“A couple thousand.”
She snapped her mouth closed. Then considered me a moment. “Done.”
I couldn’t believe we were doing this. I couldn’t believe she was willing to suspend her no-dating code for me, or that I was going to have her all to myself for three days.
“Two—I get to do anything I want to you,” she said. “And you don’t try to stop me.”
“Anything you want?” I steepled my fingers and leaned closer. “That sounds more like me winning another point.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” A blush flooded her cheeks. Then, in a tone and cadence that sounded like she was mimicking me, she added, “I know you like to be in control, but submitting once or twice doesn’t mean you lose anything.”
She gave me a coy smile and chewed on her lip as if she wasn’t sure how I’d take that.
I barked a laugh. If I expected her to stow her hang-ups for the weekend, I had to do the same with mine. “Done.”
Three days, no holding back. It would be glorious. It would break down the protective walls I’d tried to build between us. After our time was over, I knew I wasn’t going to be the one to walk away.
Hell, I’d probably already reached that point. All day, every day, my thoughts were consumed by Morgan. I couldn’t imagine my life without her, no matter what that life may be.
She grinned at me. “Any more rules?”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“Me, too, then.” Her smile widened. “I’m sure I’ll come up with something good.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Her smile slipped just a touch, enough to suggest something was bothering her. She said, “So why did you pick this place?”
“I asked the woman at the dress shop what the best restaurant in the city was.”
“And she said this?” Her tone was even, but clearly she was not pleased with my choice in venue.
“Yes.” I’d thought it would be nice, that after egg salad and gummy macaroni, an upscale meal would be a treat. Was the cost the problem here or was there something else she didn’t care for? Either way, I’d clearly made the wrong choice.
“No one has even come to take our drink orders yet,” she said. “I mean I know you said it’s a set menu, but they have to ask us what we—”
As if on cue, a waiter appeared. He was carrying a tray of drinks and two small plates. Perhaps this would change Morgan’s perception.
“Tonight’s menu is titled Cerebral,” the waiter said. “We’ll take you on a tour of the mind.”
Morgan shot me the strangest look, like she thought we’d been abducted by aliens and we had only our eyes to communicate our ideas of how to escape.
Our waiter continued, “Up first is an ode to early consciousness. The amoeba does not feel, though it seeks. Its tendrils reach out for connection.”
I stared blankly at the waiter, wondering if this sounded as ridiculous in his head as it sounded coming from his mouth.
“On your plate,” he said, “you will find a pomegranate yolk surrounded by a fennel reduction and celeriac dirt. In your glass is an accompanying cardamom ginger spritz. Please enjoy.”
He bent at the waist in a low bow and backed away.
“This is not food,” Morgan said, pointing at the plate. She gave the yolk a little poke with her finger and frowned when it sprang back with a little jiggle.
“You don’t enjoy your appetizers being referred to as dirt?” I teased.
“I enjoy my food having yummy aromas wafting off. I want a big fat serving that I can’t stop eating because it’s just that delicious. I want gooey goodness that makes me moan with pleasure.”
