Chapter 11 #2
“Yeah.” I shake my head lightly. “Yes. I’m good. I just …” I look around and up at the ceiling. “I can’t sit under an A/C vent. I have a … condition.”
Why do my eyes travel to Patrick?
His left brow raises in obvious doubt. But he doesn’t say a thing.
“I believe the A/C is off this time of year, dear,” Denise says. “Come have a seat.”
I linger another moment, far too close to Patrick and Blaire’s table.
And then I walk behind Patrick’s chair, squeezing between him and the person sitting behind him.
Then I take a seat at the table with Denise and Franklin.
I’m about two feet away from Patrick. I could literally reach across and wipe crumbs off his lip from where I’m sitting.
The worst part is how aware I am of him—even the sound of his laugh vibrates through me like it’s meant for me alone.
If Patrick finds out the grown man across from me is my date, and we’re here with his mother, I will never—and I mean, never—live it down.
I take a steadying breath. Franklin hands me a menu and I study it like I’m about to take the SATs.
In a very subdued voice—considering Patrick is twenty-four inches away—Franklin asks, “That your ex or something?”
I hold my menu up to block Patrick from seeing what I’m saying.
Is it even more obvious this way? Maybe.
“No,” I whisper. “He’s just … No, he’s definitely not my ex.”
“Good,” Franklin says. “Because I know my league and he’s definitely not in it.”
I glance at Patrick and Blaire. Franklin has a point. There’s something about the people behind the gates—they just sparkle. It’s like they’re born with veneers on their teeth and a flawless complexion.
Patrick catches me mid-ponder and smiles a smirky grin.
Franklin’s mom turns to Franklin and says, “Oh! They have chicken pot pie back on the fall menu. It’s not as good as yours, but it’ll do.”
“Aww. Thanks, Mom,” Franklin coos.
“My son is such a good cook, Daisy.” Denise pats Franklin’s forearm.
“That’s … wonderful,” I say.
I scan the menu for whatever will take the least time to eat.
Blaire reaches across the table and rests her hand on top of Patrick’s.
My eyes lock on the spot where her thumb caresses his knuckle.
“... Daisy?” Franklin’s voice snaps me out of my accidental voyeurism.
“I’m sorry. What?”
I’m being a horrible date.
Then again, this disaster deserves a spot in the bad date hall of fame.
His mom is here. And I’m next to Patrick while Blaire looks at him like he’s her appetizer and dessert. But I don’t have to make the situation worse. I steel my resolve. I’ll make the most of this.
“I was asking what you were going to order.”
“Oh. I was thinking of soup and salad.”
“Oh. No, dear,” Denise says. “Franklin’s between jobs, but by choice. He’s got plenty of money. You can get a steak. Or I do recommend the pot pie.”
I smile at her. “I’m honestly not very hungry.”
She nods.
We order and I try not to listen to Patrick telling Blaire about his role in the barn fire. She seems exceedingly impressed, but also polished, so it’s hard to tell if she’s really complimenting Patrick, or if she’s just overwhelmed with the idea of him.
I’ll admit, the idea of Patrick is overwhelming. It’s the reality that’s so surprisingly disappointing.
Franklin takes his phone out and checks something.
“Emails,” he says looking up from his phone. “They’re never-ending.”
The word emails reminds me of BTTP. A smile breaks across my face.
“Put your phone away, dear,” Denise says. “You’re on a date.”
I wish I could say Patrick is so engrossed in Blaire’s description of the redesign she did on a home in their childhood neighborhood that he doesn’t catch that word coming out of Denise’s mouth.
But his head pivots and our eyes connect.
He silently tells me, This is your date, Clark? With his mom?
And I silently tell him, And this is yours? Miss Coordinated Fabric Samples?
His amused grin tells me my silent retort landed.
I turn back to Denise and Franklin.
Focus, Daisy.
Franklin checks his phone twenty-seven times before the meal arrives. I keep track as a sort of mental game. Denise scolds him regularly. He apologizes and tucks it away, but then it’s out again.
“Have you seen this meme?” he asks, flashing me a picture of a wild muppet-like character.
The caption says, I don’t know what my spirit animal is, but I’m confident it has rabies.
I smile, laughing lightly. That was funny.
Franklin cracks up.
Our food arrives and the phone disappears.
Patrick and Blaire’s desserts arrive.
“Ohhh,” Blaire says after a bite of some apple crisp with vanilla ice cream. “This is too good not to share.”
She bats her lashes at Patrick, but in a refined manner that actually looks seductive. If I did that, I’d probably look like an insect had flown into my eye.
“Open your mouth,” she says to Patrick.
Am I staring? Probably.
How can I not?
Patrick opens his mouth obediently and Blaire reaches across the table, slipping her fork into his mouth. His lips close around it and he smiles appreciatively.
“Looks good,” Franklin says.
“Huh?” I say, turning my head to focus on him.
“The dessert. It looks good.”
“Let’s get some!” Denise suggests. “I promise not to feed you.”
I glue my eyes to Franklin, dead ahead.
If Patrick heard that … nope. No. Not even going there.