Story of My Life (Story Lake #1)

22. Fine dining fuckaround

22

FINE DINING FUCKAROUND

CAMPBELL

IntrepidReporterGuy:

New resident author causes traffic jam with her two-wheeled antics on Main Street.

I’m not living with a raccoon,” Hazel bellowed over her shoulder when she yanked the front door open. She was holding a wad of toilet paper to her left eye.

“Who are you yelling at?” I asked.

“A raccoon, obviously ,” she said.

“What happened to your eye?”

“Nothing,” she said stubbornly.

I pried the toilet paper from her. “Poke yourself with the mascara wand?” I guessed.

“Eyeliner pencil. How’d you know?”

“The three of us shared a bathroom with Laura growing up. I’m aware of the dangers of cosmetics,” I explained, dabbing at the corner of her reddened eye. “Ready to go?”

Her head bobbed. “Uh. Yep. Yeah. Definitely.”

“You’re not wearing shoes,” I pointed out.

“Right. Because they’re in my hand,” she said.

“Might want your phone too. And a purse.”

“Oh, shut up. How do I look? For research purposes,” Hazel added hastily as she shoved her feet into a pair of skyscraper sandals.

She must have swapped her glasses for contacts. I liked the glasses, but the whole smoky-eye thing worked too. The dress—or was that a pair of shorts?—was short and sleeveless with a deep, plunging V that displayed her breasts.

Thank God we hadn’t decided to do this on a workday, when one or both of my brothers would have been here to slobber over her.

“You look fine,” I said.

“Crap. I can change,” she said. “I’ll just need another twenty minutes. Thirty tops.”

She made a move for the stairs, but I caught her wrist and dragged her to the door. “I’m hungry.”

“ This is how you start a first date?” she squeaked as I pulled the front door closed behind me and checked the lock.

“It is when I’m hungry.”

“But if I don’t know what looks good, how am I going to make my heroine look good?”

“Maybe your damn hero said, ‘Fine,’ because your damn heroine looks so good she made him forget his entire vocabulary.” I couldn’t believe I’d let her rope me into this. Thank God no one in my family knew about this or I’d never live it down.

“Ooh. That’s good. Hang on,” she said, digging into a tiny purse and pulling out an equally tiny notebook. She uncapped a pen with her teeth and scribbled on the page. “‘Forget his entire vocabulary.’”

I didn’t bother disguising my eye roll. “Are you gonna be doing this all night?”

“Only if you’re good at dating. If you suck, I’m gonna have to ask out Gage or Levi.”

The hell she was.

“I already hate this,” I told her.

The guy behind the host stand had a pencil-thin mustache and too much hair product and was giving off restaurant-guy-from- Ferris-Bueller’s-Day-Off vibes.

I was ninety percent sure the head-to-toe examination he gave me was to ensure my fucking attire was fucking appropriate. I gave him a “fuck around and find out” look that had him fumbling leather-bound menus thicker than my high school history textbook.

Places like this irritated me. I’d much rather belly up to the bar at the Fish Hook or grab a pizza and a beer at Angelo’s. But Hazel Hart had fine dining written all over her.

The host led us to a table in the center of the too-bright, too-crowded dining room and all but elbowed me out of the way to pull out her chair. He disappeared with a snap of the snowy-white napkin in her lap, and we were left to stare at each other.

“Come here often?” she asked, opening the gigantic wine menu.

Before I could answer, a woman in a bow tie, vest, and white apron appeared and started explaining the night’s specials. I got bored around the truffles, and she lost me entirely during the salmon mousse. I was definitely getting a burger when this fiasco was over.

“And of course the Three Sisters sauvignon blanc pairs perfectly with our scallops. May I start you off with a bottle?” the server suggested. My gaze landed on the wine she’d just mentioned. At $300 a bottle, I hoped to hell Taylor Swift herself had personally crushed the grapes.

“You know what? I’ll have a glass of your house chardonnay,” Hazel said.

“Beer. Lager if you’ve got it.”

“We have a local lager on tap, or I’m pleased to offer you the IPA gelatin appetizer. It’s served on a tasting spoon and topped with an apricot foam.”

I squashed the urge to bang my head against the table. “For the love of God. I’ll just have a normal beer that comes out of a normal tap,” I said in desperation.

The server disappeared, and Hazel shot me a look over her menu. “You bring your dates to a place that serves quail eggs?”

“No. I brought you here.”

She closed her menu with a snap. “You were supposed to take me on a Campbell Bishop date.”

“A Campbell Bishop date is whatever I think the date will like.” And now she had me first- and last-naming myself. This woman was going to drive me either insane or into an early grave. Possibly both at the same time.

“Cam, you’ve seen me explode instant oatmeal in a microwave and that made you think I’d like the ‘curated microgastronomy of kelp and turmeric’?” she said.

“How the hell should I know what you like? I met you five seconds ago.”

Her brown eyes sharpened, and she lifted her chin. “You’re torpedoing this date on purpose!”

“Why would I do that?” I hedged.

“Gee, let me count the ways. So I don’t ask you for more help. So I leave you alone and you can stop riding to my rescue. So you can blow me off without hurting my feelings and jeopardizing the job.” She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “This is just like when a guy asks a woman to iron his shirt because ‘you do it better and I’ll just make a mess of it.’ You’re weaponized-incompetence-ing me.”

I knew exactly what she was talking about because I’d tried that scam on my mother as a teenager over dirty laundry. It had worked exactly zero times. In fact, it had earned me laundry duty for the entire family for a month until I learned the basics since Mom didn’t feel right about turning me loose on the world not knowing how to work a washer and dryer.

A woman who could see through your bullshit was a blessing and a curse.

“Look, you can’t just expect me to be a Jake,” I said, looking desperately for an out. I’d miscalculated this whole thing by trying to weasel out of it, and now I was the one suffering for it.

“Apparently. My heroes are way better at reading heroines than you are. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have—wait a second. What do you mean ‘a Jake’?” she asked.

I did what I should have done ten seconds ago and shut my mouth.

The server returned with our drinks. “May I interest you in a premeal probiotic palate cleanser made from fermented cabbage and mung beans?” she asked.

“You may not,” Hazel said, not breaking eye contact with me.

“We’ll need another minute,” I said. She left silently, like an apron-clad ninja. And I picked up the frosty glass of beer.

Hazel leaned forward. “Do you mean Jake Keaton, and if you do mean Jake Keaton, does that mean you read Just a Summer Fling ?”

I sighed and, not spying an easy way out, shrugged. “Look. I like to read, and I wanted to see what fresh hell I was getting myself into.”

“You read my book.” She looked both shocked and triumphant.

“I didn’t finish it yet,” I hedged. “I just started it yesterday.”

I was actually more than halfway through the damn thing. I’d started it the night before and had been up until after two turning the pages, but I didn’t feel the need to share that. I’d decided to put the book down after having a very physical reaction to the first almost-sex scene. And I sure as hell wasn’t sharing that.

“Did you figure out what you were getting yourself into?” she asked, picking up her wine.

“I thought this was supposed to be a date. Shouldn’t we be making small talk about hobbies and pets?” I deflected.

“You’re right. I forgot. So did you borrow the book from your sister or did you download a copy so no one would know what you were reading?”

“This fontina porridge with snails sounds…good,” I said, pointedly studying the menu.

“Uh, no, it doesn’t. Who likes cheesy snails?”

“Huge fan,” I lied. “I have a cheesy snails banner hanging over my bed signed by the chef.”

She snorted out a laugh. “Your pants are so on fire.”

“How about this weather?”

“How about you don’t have to be embarrassed, Cam? Lots of men read romance.”

She was enjoying my discomfort a little too much.

“For the record, I’m not embarrassed. I read everything. Including romance.”

“Interesting,” Hazel said, studying me in amusement over the rim of her wineglass.

“No. It’s not interesting,” I argued.

“I disagree. Either you were nervous about this little date of ours and wanted some insight into what was expected, or you thought reading one of my books would make you more helpful. Either way, that’s book-boyfriend material.”

I squirmed on the hard plastic chair.

“What I want to know is did you decide to torpedo the date before or after you started reading?” she asked.

“I didn’t decide to torpedo the date,” I insisted. Okay. So maybe I’d considered the idea of putting some distance between us. But there hadn’t been an official decision or a plan of action…besides choosing a restaurant that I thought would deliver an annoying, confusing dining experience.

“Look, if you don’t want to do this, you don’t want to do this. Consent is very important, especially for romance novelists. I’m sorry for making you feel like you couldn’t say no,” Hazel said, reaching for her tiny purse.

Shit. This wasn’t what I wanted. Well, technically it was, but now I felt like an asshole.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” I asked.

She gave me a “duh” look as she reached into her bag and pulled out some bills. “That’s what I’m doing. I’m getting ready to storm out.”

“You’re paying for our drinks and then storming out? Don’t you think it would be more heroine-y to throw your drink in my face and make me pay?”

“I was going to chug the wine and sashay my ass out of here, like a lady . I’m not really open to your edits at this point.”

I watched, impressed, as she drained her glass and set it back on the table. With a dainty burp, she pushed her chair back from the table, nodded at me, and stalked off.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

I traded her twenties for two of mine and followed.

Hazel Hart made it impossible not to like her. Believe me, I’d tried.

I caught her at the door and grabbed her wrist.

“You’re ruining my indignant exit,” she complained.

“I’m an ass.”

“Are you expecting an argument?” she asked, looking incredulous.

“Just stating facts.”

The host gave me a snooty host look. I reached up to scratch my nose with my middle finger. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“I don’t think you know how a storm-off works,” she complained as I half led, half dragged her out the door.

I loosened my tie one-handed as we headed for the truck.

“I’ll just call a Lyft,” Hazel insisted, trying to tug out of my grip.

“We don’t have any around here,” I lied.

“Then I’ll call one of your brothers.”

I unlocked the truck and opened her door. “That’s definitely not happening.”

“Are you protecting your family from me?” she demanded on an indignant gasp as I helpfully pushed her into the vehicle.

“Nope. I’m protecting myself from my mom. She hears I’ve been an asshole, she’ll make my life miserable for the next two to three months. Or until one of my brothers does something dumber.”

I shut the door in her face, and just to be sure she wouldn’t jump out and take off on those skyscraper heels, I hit the Lock button on the key fob.

I rounded the hood, unlocked the door, and slid in behind the wheel. She didn’t look ready to bolt, but she didn’t exactly look happy either.

“Here,” I said, shoving her cash back at her.

She glanced at it with disdain and then looked away again. “No, thank you. I’m paying. This was research. It’s a work expense.”

I was starting to get annoyed. “This is a date. If you think any man worth your time would let you pick up the tab on the first date, then you’ve been seeing the wrong men.”

“That’s a loaded statement,” she said under her breath.

“You’re not buying. Not when you’re out with me.”

“I’m not out with you. I’m in a vehicle with an anonymous stranger driving me home where I will enjoy washing the eight pounds of makeup off my face, putting on my pajamas, and eating canned soup.”

“We’re not goin’ home,” I said as we pulled out of the parking lot.

“You can’t kidnap me. I’ll tell your mother.”

“I owe you a date. A real one.”

“I’m not interested anymore. I’ll do my research how everyone else does, by lurking on Reddit and Scroll Life.”

“Come on. You’ve got to be hungry,” I insisted, steering us in the direction of home.

Hazel opened her mouth to deny it, but her stomach chose that particular moment to voice its empty outrage.

“That’s what I thought.” I shot her a smug look, which she returned with a glare.