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I’m so sick of this. Just because I have a round baby face that’s prone to blushing, everyone makes these sweeping assumptions about me.
Fuck that.
“I’m not giving anything up. You’d have to pry the project from me. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” Amusement touches his eyes, but also something else—admiration maybe?
“I get that we can’t talk details here,” I say, switching to a tone that’s much more appropriate when addressing my boss’s boss. “Please pick a time and place that suits you. I’d really like to proceed with the project.”
“Deal.” He pulls out his phone and fires off a text. “How about this? If you come with me to my next engagement, we can talk in the limo on the way.”
Next engagement? Before I can ask him for more details, the waiter arrives, carrying a small plate with something that looks like a crepe with caviar on it.
“De Jaeger,” the waiter says. “And kuznechik blinis. The chef sends his regards to your father for the recipe.”
So, my theory about his parents’ restaurant having something to do with this lunch was correct.
This isn’t a date.
Too bad. I was warming up to the idea.
“Care to explain what this is to this gourmet dummy?” I ask as soon as the waiter hurries away.
“Taste it first,” he suggests.
I do, and an explosion of umami flavor tantalizes my taste buds. “Subtle nuttiness,” I say in my best imitation of a posh food critic, “with the slightest hint of sweet, savory, and a note of woodiness.”
“That’s not a bad description,” he says, tasting his portion.
“And what is it?”
He points at the white eggs. “That’s snail caviar. And blinis are a type of Russian crepe, only instead of traditional buckwheat, these are made with cricket flour, which provides that nutty flavor.”
Blood drains from my face.
To fight my gag reflex, I stay so silent you can hear crickets.
No. Must. Not. Think. Of. Crickets.
Or snails. Or slugs. Or the Blob. Or sentient snot. Or—
“This food is perfectly safe.” The Impaler gives me a worried look. “You liked the way it tasted, didn’t you?”
Well, yeah, but that was before I knew what abomination I was eating.
He waves at the waiter, who rushes over right away.
“The lady will have the chef’s sampling of the children’s menu,” my boss squared declares.
The children’s menu? So now he thinks that I’m not just unadventurous sexually, but also when it comes to food.
“No,” I snap. “The lady will stick with the chef’s choice.”
The corners of the Impaler’s mouth tilt up slightly as he asks the waiter, “What’s coming next?”
“Balut Benedict,” the waiter replies.
I nervously sip my wine. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
