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“Of course.” The waitress smiles.
Oh . . . the pressure.
“Do you like margaritas?” I ask timidly.
“I love them.” His eyes hold mine, and he bites his bottom lip as if to hide his smile.
“I’ll have a margarita, please,” I tell her.
“How would you like it?”
“Shaken and salted.”
“Make that two,” Henley says.
The waitress disappears, and my eyes meet his. “Do you really like margaritas, or are you being smooth?”
His eyes dance with delight. “I’m trying to be smooth, but I do actually like margaritas. So, good choice.”
“Oh.” I smile goofily.
“How am I doing?”
“With the smooth?”
“Yeah.”
“Like a baby’s bottom.”
He chuckles and I do too.
“I was actually nervous coming here tonight.” He smiles.
“You?” I scoff.
“Yes, me,” he scoffs back. “Why wouldn’t you think I’d be nervous?”
Because you look like that.
“You just don’t seem like a nervous type of person,” I reply casually. “I was nervous coming here tonight, but . . .” My voice trails off as I stop myself from elaborating.
“But what?” He smiles.
“But I don’t go on many dates, so . . .” I shrug.
His brow furrows. “You don’t go on many dates?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Men are dicks.”
He chuckles. “That we are.”
I look around at our surroundings. “I give your date place a ten, though.”
“It is nice, isn’t it?” He looks around too.
