Chapter 10 #2
“Two,” Larkin tells her, holding up two fingers on the hand over my shoulders. “Just my girlfriend and me tonight.” My head tilts slightly at the words, but I only give the waitress my own withering smile.
She nods her head, welcoming us, and Larkin has the audacity to make small talk with her as she walks us through the atmospheric and well-designed building.
Honestly, I feel like this used to be a chain restaurant.
From the layout to the lighting, it just feels so…
efficient. Not so small business-y as other restaurants around here that were built from the ground up by optimistic entrepreneurs who are usually doomed to have their dreams crushed only a few years after opening.
Oh well.
But I’m not complaining. Not as she seats us at a booth in the far corner, where I slide onto the vinyl seat across from Larkin and keep my eyes on his. He smiles the whole time and grins sweetly at the hostess when she sets down our menus and utensil bundles on the dark green table.
“Thank you so much,” he tells her as she turns to walk away, and before I can do anything, he hooks one leg around mine under the table, jerking me to the edge of my seat.
“Now”—when he looks at me, his smile is a lot less warm and a lot less friendly—“let’s set some ground rules.
Shall we, Tova? No stabbing in public. No screaming.
No making a scene. I like this place, and I want to keep coming here.
Can you follow those rules for me?” he purrs in an infuriatingly placating and condescending tone.
“What’s in it for me, exactly?” I demand, running my fingers over the textured exterior of the faux-leather-bound menu. “Other than a lack of entertainment?”
His grin widens. “I’m so happy you asked.” Leaning forward across the table, his leg loosens enough so I can sit up normally on my side of the booth. “If you can keep yourself under control and not act like a silly little girl who likes to play the monster…”
God, I hate this man.
“Then I won’t kill your roommate.”
His velvety soft words take a few moments to process between my ears. My unfriendly smile fades, as my fingers go cold and still on the table.
“What did you just say?” I whisper, heart pounding in my ears. “Did you—”
“I don’t think I need to repeat myself.” He sits up fully, releasing my leg and picking up his menu. “Have you been here before?”
Glancing around, I look at the atmosphere, from the early 2000s stained glass lamps over the table to the wait staff wearing more formal uniforms than they really need to in a place like this. The menu is a bit dated, but nice, and I run my fingers over it again as I shake my head. “Nah. Have you?”
“Nope.” He enunciates the word and flips through the thick laminated sheets. “But it looks like a pretty good place for a date.”
“This isn’t a date.”
“This is absolutely a date.”
“Oh, yeah?” I find myself more talkative around him, though I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Normally, I prefer to watch and wait and learn about people before I give them what I think will get them out of my hair the quickest. Or, for people like my boss or Esme, give them what will give them a better opinion of me for the long run.
Larkin is…strange. He makes me feel strange, and I huff out a soft sigh. “How do you figure this is a date?”
“Because I told you it was.” He flashes me a bright smile and sets his menu down. “I’m ready when you are.”
“I didn’t agree to go on one with you.”
“Yet here you are.”
I scoff at that and roll my eyes up at Larkin with a quick shake of my head. “You didn’t give me a fucking choice. I’m only here because you physically dragged me away from what I was doing and took my box cutter.”
His smile widens, and I hate the gleam that makes his dark eyes dance. “So? There’s nothing in the rulebook that says a date has to be fully agreed on by both parties, silly girl. I said it’s a date, so it’s a date.”
Glaring down at the menu, I scoff. “Don’t call me that. I’m not a silly girl. I’m not your babe, I’m not—”
“A fierce little monster with less sense than a rabbit in a trap?” He rests his head on his hands, elbows on the table, as he gazes at me from under his thick lashes.
God, he shouldn’t look so perfect. My hands come up to fiddle with my jacket, and with a jolt, I realize it’s his.
That takes only a moment to fix, and I launch it across the table to him.
To my satisfaction, a sleeve slaps him in the face, causing Larkin to close his eyes and sigh.
Carefully, he extricates his jacket from the table without knocking off any silverware, and drops it on the booth beside him.
“Careful, silly girl,” he hums with his eyes darkening in warning. “I’m a bit of an exhibitionist, and if I have to teach you a lesson here—”
“Hi! Welcome to Cider House Grill!” I’ve never been saved by a na?ve, over-eager waitress, and her sudden appearance makes me jump. Larkin only glances up at her, though I see his slight frown of disappointment at her arrival.
“Hello,” he greets with a half-sigh. He flashes her a smile that’s definitely not real and looks at me. “Are you ready to order, babe? Or do you need another minute?”
“Oh, that’s okay!” the young girl, who’s maybe eighteen, shoves the pad of paper into her apron like it might be offending us. “Can I just get your drink order?”
“Absolutely. Could I get iced tea? I don’t need any sugar,” Larkin tells her smoothly. “And…” He glances down at the smaller drink menu. “A Black Russian.”
The girl nods, then proceeds to look at me, but I just gaze at her nonplussed, as if I’ve never in my life ordered a fucking drink.
“Same,” I say finally, my mind blank. “Not the Black Russian, though. Just the tea.” I definitely don’t need any alcohol in my system tonight, but Larkin gives a little snicker at my reluctance.
“I’ll be right back with those drinks and some bread!” The way-too-chipper girl nearly bounces away, like she’s floating on rainbows and good intentions.
“God, that’s certainly a personality type,” I grumble, my own head going to my hands. I glare down at the menu, then up at Larkin. “And I’m not hungry.”
“You’re hungry,” he disagrees, carefully setting down the drink menu. “Figure out what you want, or I’ll order for you. Would you like that? Because I’m not sure I know you well enough yet to accurately order your food.”
“You don’t.”
“Then be a big girl and look at the damn menu.” His words, full of goading amusement, really fuel my irritation. But I open the menu again, the textured vinyl slapping loudly on the dark green table. Shaking my head, I stare down at it, my eyes barely able to read the items listed.
“I know what I want,” I say before I spot a club sandwich. It’s simple enough and easy enough that I don’t have to be difficult, though I will admit to myself that I’d love to try their bourbon filet.
Not tonight, though.
Maybe another night, when I’m not here with some serial killer who’s maybe a little worse than me. Still, I let my gaze linger, curious about the options.
I don’t need steak tonight.
I just need a fucking steak knife for Larkin.
The waitress comes back while I’m still deciding how I’d like to kill him, and with Larkin apparently pleased to just watch me seethe.
When she gives us our drinks, Larkin flashes her a winning smile, and I can see her falter under the brilliance of his charm, just a little.
With a quick, guilty glance at me, she sets down my iced tea in front of me.
“The bartender is bringing your drink. I’m, uh, not old enough,” she admits.
Her eyes dip to his throat, where the winding lines of tattoos crawl upwards from his hoodie, like they do at his wrists.
My curiosity is begging to see what all he has inked on his skin, but I’d rather eat my tongue than ask.
“But if you know what you want to eat, I can take your orders.”
“Absolutely. And I’m sorry we took so long.
” His charm is nearly blinding, and he lists off his order, a steak of course, without looking back down at the menu.
When he’s done, I open my mouth, ready to order my simple sandwich just to be done with this, but Larkin keeps going.
“And she’ll have the filet. Medium. With”—he looks at me, studying my face—“the bourbon glaze. Mashed potatoes for her side? Yeah.” He’s not really asking.
“What salad dressing?” the girl asks, and she doesn’t bother to even look in my direction. But Larkin does, one brow raised, apparently inviting me to answer.
For my part, I’m stunned. How did he know? How could he predict what I wanted, down to the bourbon glaze? My fingers tap against my glass as I look at him, nonplussed, until a foot catches my ankle, pulling a surprised little gasp from my throat.
“Honey mustard,” I breathe quickly, barely stopping to think. “And, um, no cucumbers.” I suppose if I’m doing this, I might as well do it right. The waitress nods and walks away, stopping by another table when they snag her attention.
“Why did you order for me?” I demand, jerking my leg back. Without the menu in my hand, I’m reduced to tapping my fingers against the dark green surface of the table in frustration. Larkin just grins, fueling my irritation. God, I want to wipe that look off his face.
“Did I do good?” he hums. He’s unperturbed by my attitude, but I suppose it’s par for the course when he’s kidnapped me for a fucking date I never signed up for. “Tell me I did good.”
I will not be saying that. Instead, I shake my head, arms crossed, and glare at him. “I don’t want to be here. So, I’m not giving you shit.” He did do good, somehow, and that’s the problem.
But how did he know?