Page 11 of His Curvy Woman

I smile at Dave politely, but when I don’t hear Hunter respond, I look at him and see that he’s scowling. Weirdo.

“Let me tell you about our specials we have tonight…”

I only hear half of what he’s saying because I’m more concerned with Hunter sitting across from me and turning into the Hulk.

“Hey Dave, can we get a few minutes?” I ask cutting the guy off.

“Yeah, sure. Take all the time you need.” He says and walks away.

“What is going on with you?” I ask Hunter whose fists are clenched and is steadily clocking Dave as he goes to another table. Having had enough of his outrageous behavior, I kick him under the table. Finally getting his attention, he looks at me. “He was checking you out.” He grinds out through his clenched teeth.

I start laughing, so hard I start crying. When I’ve calmed down and dried my eyes, I’m finally able to speak. “That’s what has you ready to Hulk out? For one, guys don’t check me out. Two, even if they did, they aren’t you, so you have nothing to worry about. Three, do you see me throwing a tantrum every time a girl checks you out, which is oh, about every five minutes or so? I mean we walked into the restaurant, and every woman we passed was basically eye-fucking you.”

“Don’t say fuck.” He says in a fractionally calmer tone.

I roll my eyes. “Hunter, people are going to stare. It’s just human nature. If I can put up with it, then so can you. Trust me, I’ll have to deal with it a hell of a lot more than you will.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t say fuck.” I sass, and he gives me a pointed stare making me laugh.

“Answer my question, Whitley.”

“Don’t make me say it, Hunter. You’re a smart guy, figure it out.”

“No.”

“On the scale of who is hot or not, ten being the hottest and zero being not at all, you’re like a twelve or thirteen while I’m a solid seven.”

Hunter looks even more pissed than when Dave was here telling us the specials, then Dave walks over, and I groan. What started out as a lovely night has quickly turned bad. “Are we ready to order now, or do you still need a few minutes?”

“We’re read,” I say, needing to change the subject and get through this dinner. “I’ll have the Chilean Sea Bass,” I tell him, pointing to the spot on the menu where the Chilean Sea Bass is located.

“And what sides would you like with that?” He asks.

“Aren’t you going to write any of that down?” Hunter grinds out from across the table.

“No need sir, I’ll remember the order,” Dave says, pointing at his head.

“I’ll have the risotto and a side salad,” I say quickly trying to move this along.

“What kind of dressing would you like on the salad?”

“What kind do you have?” When he leans over and points to where the dressings are listed on the menu, Hunter loses it.

“We’re leaving.” He stands up, throws a twenty on the table, then walks to my side and pulls out my chair.

“Are you crazy?” I ask the man who’s starting to make a scene.

“We need to go, Whitley, it’s an emergency.” He says sternly then holds out his hand for me to take.

Unable to tell him no, I take his hand and he quickly walks us out of the restaurant and back to his truck. Once we are both safely inside and he’s pulling out of the parking lot and onto the main road, I look at him expectantly.

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