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I study the menu for another second. “The citrus and honey crusted rack of lamb with mint gremolata and a white wine and shallot jus.”
“I don’t know what any of that means.” He takes the menu from me and smiles. “But it sounds delicious.”
I can’t get used to seeing him with a smile. It’s like seeing someone who usually wears glasses with contacts instead. You know who they are, but something is just…off. When Luka aims his smile at me, it takes me a minute to remember who I’m looking at. Who I’m sitting across from.
His usual cold demeanor returns when the waiter comes to take our order. Luka orders what I recommended, but he doesn’t smile at the man or engage in any conversation beyond ordering our food. As soon as we are alone, however, his shoulders lower, and he seems to let his guard down.
But why? I’m the enemy. We’ve made a deal, but that doesn’t make me not a Furino. Not for four more days, at least. He should be most guarded with me.
Once we order our food, we don’t have anything to talk about. I search my brain for any topic, anything at all to discuss, but come up with nothing. I can’t even remember what the weather was like today. I didn’t go outside, and during the walk from the house to the car and the car to the restaurant, I was far too worried about where we were going and why Luka was acting so different to pay attention to something as unimportant as the temperature.
I look up, scanning the dining room for something I could mention—the décor or lighting, perhaps—when I notice a group a few tables away from us. There are six people at the table, and based purely on age and the way they are seated at the table, it looks like a woman with her parents, and a man with his parents.
“Meeting the parents.” Luka has followed my gaze to the table, his green eyes sparkling with interest. “That is always awkward.”
The man’s father and the woman’s mother are leaning across the table at one another, faces screwed up in anger. The man and woman are casting worried looks at one another and then at their parents, unsure what to do.
“It doesn’t look like it’s going very well,” I say.
Diners at the other tables around us are beginning to take notice, casting furtive glances at them and trying not to be seen. Luka and I, on the other hand, are openly gawking. We need this distraction to save our own dinner.
“It’s always tough when the families don’t get along,” I say before realizing who I’m talking to. When I do, I laugh.
Luka turns to me. “What?”
“Speaking of families who don’t get along,” I say, gesturing back and forth between us. “Maybe we should tell the couple our story to give them a little bit of hope.”
Luka’s eyes darken, and he turns away, looking back down at his plate. I don’t know what I’ve said to mess everything up, but I want it to go back to how it was. For a brief moment there, I was having a good time.
“I wonder why they hate each other,” I ponder, hoping to turn the focus back to the other table and away from us.
“Who knows?” Luka shrugs glumly.
“I bet I can guess,” I say, twisting my lips to one side of my mouth in thought. When an idea pops into my head, I smile and hold up one finger in the air. “I bet they met up at the dad’s house before coming to the restaurant, and he looks like the kind of guy who would have a parrot.”
Luka looks up at me, eyebrows pulled together. “A parrot?”
“Yep,” I nod. “He has a parrot with a filthy mouth who mimics everything he says, and I bet he and the girl’s mother know one another from years ago, and he has bad-mouthed her to this parrot for years.”
Despite himself, I see a smile pulling at the corners of Luka’s mouth. He runs a hand down his face and through his beard to hide it, but he can’t.
“And as soon as she walked through the door, the parrot went off. It called her every name in the book, and everyone knew the parrot had to have heard those things from the dad. So, they hate each other.”
He shakes his head, biting his lower lip to hide his amusement. “That’s what you think happened?”
“It is,” I say before shrugging. “Or she is a bisexual and they both fell in love with the same nun.”
At that, Luka laughs. Actually laughs. The sound seems to surprise even him, because he quickly clamps his teeth together. Still, he is smiling and shaking his head. It’s not a bad sight in the least.
* * *
Our conversation carried on long after the two families a few tables over decided to call the evening a loss and go their separate ways. Luka asked about my experiences in culinary school and my dreams for how I’d use my degree. Unlike my dad, he didn’t laugh when I told him I wanted to have my own restaurant in the city. Then, Luka told me about more of the mansion I hadn’t seen yet—the theater room and the sun porch on the west wing that is perfect for reading or whatever I’d like to do there.
In fact, the conversation flowed so well that we keep talking in the car—discussing our valet’s terrible beard braid and the horrors of the country-rap crossover growing popular in music—and all the way until we walk inside the house.
I pause in the entryway, unsure if I should head immediately upstairs and back to my room, but Luka carries on, talking over his shoulder as he walks into the sitting room to the right.
“I still can’t believe that man got mad at you because he was drunk and tripped over your chair,” he says, flopping down on the end of the sofa in a way that is surprisingly casual. Everything about Luka seems rigid and purposeful. So, watching him sink into the cushions, one arm draped over the back of the couch, feels as strange as watching him walk backwards on his hands.
