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I let out a harsh breath. “I’m not dressed to go out.”
“We’ll stop by the hotel, but look. We need this.” He held out his phone, open to our shared selfies. “People are saying it looks staged. Plastic. We need to be out there showing our faces.”
I tried to think of a good reason I couldn’t. None came to mind. “Does it have to be tonight?”
“It doesn’thaveto, but we should set the tone early. Put our own spin on us before everyone else does.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “So, where are we going?”
“Out for Italian food. Word is you love that.”
I blinked, surprised. He’d bothered to check?
I smiled in spite of myself at the small, thoughtful gesture. Italian fooddidsound good, a big plate of pasta. Even Eric parked across from me couldn’t spoil that.
An hour later, we were seated at the Jolly Olive, a cute mom-and-pop place with a wisteria-curtained terrace. Twinkling strands of fairy lights hung overhead. Candles in glass globes flickered at the tables. I had to hand it to Eric, it was a perfect date spot. Only one problem — the terrace was private, closed in on three sides by fragrant pink blossoms. Not much of a chance we’d be photographed here.
“Shouldn’t we have picked somewhere a little more public? I mean, if the point is to get ourselves seen?”
Eric reached for the garlic bread and helped himself to a slice. “Won’t be a problem.Mm,damn, that’s good. Have a bite of this garlic bread.” He held it out to me, but I snagged my own slice.
“Why won’t it be a problem?”
Eric chewed, then swallowed. He sighed, licked his lips. “I’ve tipped off the press, so they’ll catch us leaving. But I figured before that, we could use a nice meal. A nice,quietmeal, no need for theatrics.”
Relief flooded through me. “We can drop the act?”
“We should still keep it civil, no sword fights with breadsticks. But take a quick look around you. What do you see?”
I surveyed the terrace. “Couples on dates.”
“Bingo. They’ve only got eyes for each other. We can eat our spaghetti and just be ourselves.”
The waiter glided over and Eric ordered spaghetti. I got the antipasto platter for two, mostly because they didn’t make it for one. I figured I’d have leftovers tomorrow for brunch, but the second our food came out, Eric’s fingers came sneaking.
“You know I can see you, right? Eating my bruschetta?”
Eric stole a stuffed olive. “You can have my parsley.”
“Oh, thanks, your parsley.” I snaked a bite of his pasta. “Mm, this is actually… This is amazing. How did you find this place?”
“Your spot on Deep Dish, where you made ravioli. You listed a bunch of your favorite foods. I searched where to get those here on Oahu.” He leaned back, looking sheepish. “I took it too far today, the thing with your pauses. I didn’t think Berg would lay into you like that.”
“So this is a peace offering?”
“Comfort food for your butthurt.”
I stuck out my tongue at him. “Do I sit on it or eat it?”
We both smiled at that, and my tension eased off. I took a bite of bruschetta and savored its freshness. “Do I really do that, with the soap-opera pauses?”
Eric’s expression turned cautious. “I mean, a little? But not like I said. You don’t leave a gap you could drive a whole truck through.”
I frowned. “But it bugs you.”
“That could be a me thing.” Eric stared at his food. “I had this, uh, babysitter who was obsessed with her stories. She’d watch them all day, camped out on the couch. I’d be home sick and she’d make me watch with her, and if I sneezed too loudly she’d pelt me with tissues. So, yeah, I don’t know. I hate soap-style acting.” Eric leaned forward, his dark eyes gone stormy. “Sienna, I lied to you. Marigold is your… Mother!” He let out a sharp, theatrical gasp, and I couldn’t help myself. I laughed so hard I snorted.
“Okay, that’s fair. Thatispretty cheesy.”
