Chapter 10
Chapter 10
At Chez Pierre a mere ten-minute walk later, I sit at our table for two, gazing at the opulent surrounds. It’s just as I imagined: slick, modern, minimal with comfortable fabric chairs tucked under tables covered with crisp white tablecloths. The utensils on the table are so brightly polished I can see myself in them, and the only sound comes from the low murmur of voices and an elderly man playing soft, tasteful piano music on a baby grand in the corner by the bar.
The scene is absolutely primed for romance.
If this goes well, #NoMoreBadDates could be trending for me today in a big, big way.
“This is wonderful,” I breathe. “It’s like stepping into a slick, modern salon in Paris.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Oliver smiles across the table at me. “We could speak in French, if you like, to add to the ambiance?”
Speak in French?
Awkwardly, I murmur, “Oh. I, ah, I don’t speak French, sorry.”
He lets out a light laugh. “That’s good, because I don’t either.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. “I’m glad I passed the test with your friends.”
His big hand feels warm wrapped around mine. “Me, too.”
“So, I take it you haven’t eaten here before?”
I shake my head.
“You’re going to love it. The food’s amazing.” He lets go of my hand and picks the large leather-bound menu up from the table. “How about I order for us? I know what’s good here.”
I’ve never been out with a guy who’s taken me to a place like this. Swept along by the euphoria of the occasion, I nod and smile dumbly. Oliver immediately waves the waiter over and orders what seems like enough food to keep us from starving for about a month.
“Tell me about yourself, Sophie, and it doesn’t have to be how your last relationship ended or anything like that.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine. I get it. You need to make sure I’m not a dick.”
I laugh. “Well, yes. You can invest so much time in someone only to find they’re not who you thought they were.”
“Exactly. Now, tell me about your childhood.”
“You sound like a shrink.”
“No. Just a product marketer,” he replies with a glint in his eye.
“Well, I grew up here in Auckland. I’m the youngest of five kids. That means they’re always trying to boss me around.”
“Five kids? I always wanted a brother. I’m an only child.”
“I dreamed of being an only child. All that space and time to myself. Bliss.”
“What do you want to know about me?”
We’re moving back to him already?
I mentally skim through the list of questions in the No More Bad Dates Pact handbook, but my thoughts keep turning to Jason’s “feeder” comment. Which is extremely annoying because it was completely unfounded and really quite ridiculous.
Clearly impatient for my questions, Oliver raises his eyebrows at me. “Well?”
“Okay, I’ve got one. I’m interested in hearing more about what you like about food.”
“What do you mean? Doesn’t everyone like food?”
Good point. “Err, well, I mean what about you and food and . . . dating.”
Okay, I’m getting weird now. Why did I let Jason get in my head about this guy? First the Danny DeVito comment, which considering Oliver’s height is actually quite funny, and now this whole “feeder” business? Whose idea was it to have Jason in on the pact, anyway? Oh, yes, that’s right: it was Jason’s.
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Sophie. Are you asking me if I like to go on dates and eat? Because that would be yes, I do.” He gestures around the restaurant.
I shoot him a sheepish smile. “Great. That’s all I wanted to know. Which I could have worked out for myself, given the fact we’re on a date at a restaurant, about to eat some food.”
He shoots me a sideways look. “Yeah.”
A waiter appears by our table to save me, plates balanced in his hands. “Your appetizers.”
With the dishes in front of us—a salmon something or other for me and a beef carpaccio for my date—Oliver waggles his eyebrows and says, “ Bon appétit. Wow, who knew? I do know how to speak French.”
I smile at his weak joke and take a mouthful of my appetizer. It’s melt-in-your-mouth delicious. Just as I’m about to take another bite, Oliver loads up his own fork and thrusts it across the table at me. His arms are so long, he doesn’t have to reach far, and the forkful hovers a mere inch from my mouth. “Here. Try. Beef carpaccio with capers and celeriac. You’ll love it, I promise.”
Not knowing what else to do, I open my mouth and take the mouthful. Oliver’s right, it is delicious, but I’m on the back foot. Isn’t sharing someone else’s meal a little too intimate for a first date? I mean, he just fed an almost total stranger from his fork.
Or maybe I’m just a bit on edge. Damn you, Jason Christie!
“Amazing, right?” His eyes are wide with expectation.
“Mmm,” I say with an enthusiastic nod, my mouth full. I swallow then smile. “Really amazing. Thanks.”
I return my attention to my own food and quickly finish it off. It doesn’t take long, it is haute cuisine, after all, which is basically code for tiny and outrageously expensive morsels of food.
Pushing Jason from my head, I ask, “So, you used to work with my boss, huh?”
“Paige? Oh yeah, she’s the best. I miss her at work. She was always so kind and positive. Never a bad word to say about anyone.”
I smile as I think of my sweet, quirky boss who wears her heart on her sleeve and always lives life to the fullest. “That sounds like Paige.”
“I’ve not been to her café, but I bet her food is good. She used to bring baking into the office some days, and it would be gone practically as soon as she opened the tub.”
“I bet. She and Bailey specialize in cakes. The Cozy Cottage is known for it.”
He takes a bite of his carpaccio then loads up his fork once more—the one he just used to feed himself—and offers me another bite.
“Oh, I’m doing great, thanks.”
“You have got to have this. I’ve added some capers this time. So good.”
“I’ll, err, take a bite myself.” I brandish my fork.
“No no no no no. You don’t need to do that. I can feed you. It’ll be fun.”
Feeling increasingly uncomfortable about him spoon-feeding me, I scoop up a bite on my fork and slip it into my mouth. I chew it and swallow quickly. “No, it’s better this way. Thank you for offering. You know, I am a grown-up,” I add with a laugh. “I’ve been feeding myself for a while, now.” When he doesn’t join in the laugh, I add, “It’s awkward for you to reach across the table to feed me, anyway.” I glance at his Inspector Gadget arms and know it’s hardly a stretch for him. Literally.
He pouts. Like a real, kid-style pout. “But it’s more fun this way. Don’t you think?” His face brightens. “I know what. I’ve got an idea.” He stands, picks up his chair, and moves it so he’s sitting next to me. Several people at neighboring tables turn to look at us. I smile feebly at them, feeling powerless to stop this from unfolding.
“See? This way, I don’t need to reach across the table.” He loads up his fork and hovers it by my lips. “Open up.”
I clamp my mouth shut and shake my head like I’m some sort of stubborn toddler refusing her dinner.
“Come on, Sophie. It’s good, you know it is.”
I shake my head again, with more conviction this time, until Oliver lowers his fork and his head droops. He looks so dejected, I instantly feel bad and want to give him the benefit of the doubt. He passed the Vetting Phase, after all. I’m determined to hold onto this guy.
I place my hand softly on his arm. “It’s just a bit too soon for us to do this, that’s all. I think sharing a fork is quite intimate. Why don’t we get to know each other some more first? Then, one day, I don’t know, maybe we could share a milkshake or something?”
His face instantly brightens. “I’d like to share a milkshake with you.”
We talk, sitting side by side, and things gradually return to normal. We’re two people out on a first date, getting to know one another. No one’s feeding anyone else as though they were a baby, and before too long, I forget the initial weirdness and get back to enjoying our date. So much so, by the time our mains are delivered, we’re laughing together, and I begin to feel like I could see a future with this guy once more.
“Wow, this pork belly is so good,” Oliver comments as he finishes his first mouthful.
“The food here is outstanding. Great choice, Oliver.”
“Did you want to try a bite of mine?” Oliver’s voice is tentative, and I feel bad that I made such a big deal of it all beforehand. “You can use your own fork, if you prefer?”
“Sure, thanks. You can try my steak, too.”
We both sample one another’s meals, with our own forks, and agree they’re both equally good.
He forks another chunk of my steak from my plate, dips it in the Sauce Béarnaise , and before I realize what he’s doing, he slips it into my mouth.
He’s feeding me my food now?
No freaking way.
They say every person has their breaking point. Some can take the heat in the kitchen, some can barely make it through the door into the room. This moment, people, is my breaking point. Who knew a guy who looks like a cross between an oversized Zac Efron and Gerard Butler would deliver it to me?
Before the next forkful makes its way into my mouth, I place my hands against the table, push backwards, and pop up onto my feet.
He blinks up at me, still holding the fork in the air. “Where are you going?”
“I, ah, I just remembered I need to be somewhere. So sorry.”
It’s a weak excuse. In fact, it barely even qualifies as an excuse, but what else am I going to say? “It’s freaking me out the way you keep trying to feed me?” I already tried that approach.
“Can it wait? There’s all this to eat.” He gestures at the table where our two meals are placed, surrounded by the five side dishes he chose. “And I’m having such a great time with you.”
My resolve slips a fraction. “If I’m late to this thing I only just remembered about,” I say, persisting with the lie, “will you quit with the feeding?”
He twists his mouth before shaking his head. “I like doing it. It makes me feel close to you. And besides, you’re too skinny.”
“You’re trying to fatten me up?”
He shrugs. “I guess it’s my thing.”
I nod at him as I let out a resigned puff of air and giant, red flags fly proudly around him. The red flags I refused to see before we got here.
I let out a defeated puff of air. “Of course it is.”
Why would a great looking guy with a decent E.Q. and a good job not be into weird stuff?
I collect my purse and slip the strap over my shoulder. “Thank you for the date, Oliver. I don’t think this is going to work out.”
“But what am I meant to do with all this food?”
“Eat it?” I suggest.
The expression on his face is one of complete distaste. “I got it for you.”
I glance at the huge amount of food on the table. “I’ll pay my half.”
He slumps his shoulders in defeat, and I get the distinct feeling this has happened to him before. “Sure. Whatever.”
I turn on my heel and walk through the elegant restaurant. With every step, the feeling of unease inside grows and grows. I’ve been duped by a looney-tunes disguised as one of the good guys.
But what bothers me the most, what really grates me, is that Jason was one hundred percent right.