Chapter 3 The Meet-Cute #2
The waiter disappears into the dimly lit interior of the restaurant, leaving us alone at our small table nestled by a window. Candlelight flickers between us, creating soft shadows over the glossy red walls adorned with vintage posters and tiny gold-framed mirrors.
I fiddle with my napkin, suddenly hyperaware that the man across from me is basically a stranger, his masked eyes steady on mine.
The silence feels loaded, like neither of us is sure what to say next.
Under the table, I cross my ankles. Maybe feeling awkward around a hundred strangers is better than this.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “we’re keeping the masks on.”
“Yes, we are,” I reply, trying to sound casual as I sip my water.
He hums. “Why’s that?”
“This is a small town. Only five thousand of us.”
“I’m aware.”
“Well, I know a lot of people.”
His mouth twitches. “You don’t want to be seen with me?”
“I don’t want to be seen with anyone. People talk, and I’d rather not give them a reason to. Or… more reasons.” I glance around, imagining the gossip mill working overtime if anyone spotted us together. “I have a no-dating-in-Willowbrook policy in place.”
More like a “no-dating-at-all” policy, but anyway.
“And you broke your rule for me.” He mimics a bow. “I’m flattered.”
“You’re wrong, you mean. This isn’t a date.”
“Isn’t it?” he asks, just as the waiter glides over, then sets the bottle of wine down with an exaggerated flourish. Fair enough—this feels a little date-y.
“If it were, I’d probably be okay with us taking the masks off.”
Rafael tilts his head as if to say “Touché,” then silently fills his glass halfway. Once I point at mine, too, he says, “I thought you didn’t drink.”
Two strangers who probably share little except an awkward dinner need wine.
“Turns out I just wasn’t motivated enough.”
The waiter comes back with different types of bread and beautiful, glistening dipping oils. They smell spiced, and the bread looks crispy. I swear, even if I did end up on Dateline, this would still be worth it.
I quickly break off a piece of bread and dip it in the oil, then bring it to my lips. My stomach growls on cue, reminding me this is the first thing I’ve eaten the whole day. And God, it’s delicious. “Wow.” I point at the small pot. “You need to try this.”
He stifles a laugh, taking a piece of bread from the basket. “Can I at least know your name?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Really? We could be cousins—us being on a date could get weird.”
I go in for a second dip. “We’re not cousins.”
Smug, he grins. “So this is a date.”
Before I can retort, the waiter strides over again and sets down the plate of truffle arancini, the golden-brown balls glistening under the dim restaurant lights. Next comes the heirloom tomato bruschetta, stacked like miniature towers of vibrant red and green.
“Enjoy,” he says, his tone flat, before turning to leave, a whiff of truffle oil leaving me momentarily speechless.
This is exactly the type of delicious, pretentious food I pictured.
“You look pleased.”
I smack my lips. “Still not a date.”
“Fine. In that case, give me all the gritty, nasty details.” He holds out the plate, waiting for me to grab an arancino. “You know, the way nobody does on a date. Really let me see what I’m not missing out on.”
“The worst I have to offer?”
“Exactly.” His hair, a dark brown so deep it almost looks black if it isn’t hit by direct light, keeps falling over his eyes, but he doesn’t seem bothered. My hand itches to tuck it back. “Why should I be glad this isn’t a date? The floor’s yours.”
I fill my plate with bruschetta, realizing I am really and truly starving.
“I’m a mess,” I say, though I probably give it away by speaking with my mouth full.
“There isn’t one corner of my house that isn’t constantly infested with socks.
I forget to eat and drink, have never ironed a single shirt in my life, and my fridge looks like it hasn’t been cleaned out since the last ice age. Because I also don’t know how to cook.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Life’s messy. No point in being put-together.”
“Right.” I bite into the arancino, barely stifling a moan. Am I having a foodgasm? “And I have a weird cat that I’ll always love more than any man.”
He shrugs. “I’ll never love anyone more than my pet tarantula.”
My eyes bulge. “Pet what? You’re kidding, right?”
“Hairy Houdini—may he rest in peace.”
I exhale in relief. “Oh, it’s dead.”
He sets his fork down, his lips pressed into a flat line as he playfully glares. “Insensitivity. Another quality people don’t exactly elbow their way through crowds for.”
“I’m also broke. I have a job that I adore but that will never make me rich.”
“Hmm. You must be an artist.”
I’ve never thought of myself as one, but I guess I am. “Yes.”
“The messy bit makes sense, then. Artists can’t tolerate reality.”
“Or survive it.”
He seems to be hanging on my every word, holding a bruschetta but not eating it, as if he can’t afford the distraction.
“I’m a bookworm. Parties aren’t for me. Conversations aren’t exactly my strong suit, either. I work alone, live alone, and function best alone.”
He leans back, setting the platter down. “So, your ideal night is spent in a nest of socks, avoiding human interaction, reading until you forget to eat?”
“Exactly,” I say, shoving the remaining half of my arancino into my mouth. “If that’s not the dream, I don’t know what is.”
He laughs and, noticing my plate is empty, holds out the arancini platter again.
“Your turn,” I say.
“Hm? Oh. I believe everyone with good taste should date me.” Watching my unimpressed gaze, he drinks a sip of wine, then sets down his glass.
“Fine. Let’s see, uh… I’m stubborn. I’ve been told I could argue with a brick wall and come out convinced I won.
” He shrugs like it’s a point of pride. “And I have no patience for fluff. I’d take blunt honesty over polite nonsense any day. ”
“Would you?” I ask. Then, with an overly polite tone, I add, “Spiders are gross, and I’m glad your tarantula is dead.”
His eyelashes flutter dramatically. “I’m lovestruck.”
“Come on,” I insist. “Give me something good.”
“Okay, okay. Let me think.” He leans in, drumming his fingers against the table. “You really don’t want to talk to me before my coffee.”
“So, part-time grumpy and stubborn. Anything actually terrible?”
“I hog the blankets. And I’m not sorry about it. It’s a survival instinct.”
“Seriously?” I giggle, which is unfair, because he’s not playing along. “Forget about it. You’re a cheat, Gray.”
He swallows whatever he was about to say, his eyes softening. “Gray?”
Shit. “Like your eyes,” I blurt. “You have… gray eyes.”
He knows the color of his own eyes, Scarlett.
“Right.” He clears his throat, and for a moment, I’m sure he knows. That I know him. That we’ve met before. But then I realize, even if he’s caught on that I know who he is, he doesn’t know who I am. Not yet, at least. “Okay. You want the dirt?”
Distracted from my spiraling discomfort, I nod. “I want the filth.”
“Fine.” The waiter comes to take our plates and, after depositing the lobster ravioli between us, leaves again. “The reason you should never, ever date me is…”
I wait as he breathes out, not sure if I’ll get a genuine answer or another deflection. But then he looks up, and as his gaze meets mine, a shiver runs down my spine. “That I’m trouble, Freckles. The kind of trouble you don’t walk away from.”