Page 76 of Ardently Yours

Why bother dirtying a plate for this?

The steward disappears through a set of rich mahogany doors, leaving Arden and me, apparently, to enjoy our meal.

Arden tips his head toward my plate. “You don’t care for your amuse-bouche?”

I can be an upfront, tell-’em-like-it-is kind of person in some things, but being gracious about food someone else has made is one place I know to mind my manners. I grew up in a household where my dad taught us from the moment we were old enough to speak to say “thank you” to our mother for cooking our meal and compliment her efforts. And, under no circumstance, ever, was the word “yuck” permitted to leave our mouths at the dinner table. We didn’t have to eat everything put in front of us, but we didn’t complain about it either. “It looks delicious.”

His lips quirk. “You covered your mouth and your pitch was too high. You’re still a terrible liar.”

A laugh sneaks out of me, and I peek up at him in chagrin. “I don’t actually like goat cheese,” I admit.

“I didn’t realize. I’ll make sure the chef knows not to serve it in the future.”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m not that picky. Truly, I can eat it.”

A playful expression creases his face, and he glances toward the door, before grinning like a naughty schoolboy.

He looks at my plate, back at me, and wiggles his eyebrows. “Do you mind?”

Do I mind what?“No?”

Just like that, Arden reaches across, swoops my fifty-cent sized dinner off my plate, pops it in his mouth. And it’s gone.

My mouth drops open in shock. “You ate my muse-poosh.”

He freezes, his eyes going wide. “I thought you didn’t want it.”

“Well, I don’t want to starve either,” I say on an incredulous laugh.

He picks up his plate and swaps it for mine. “I apologize,” he says stiffly.

I cross my arms, then, realizing I look defensive, uncross them just as quickly. “It was a misunderstanding. You asked. You didn’t just take it.”

The steward returns with a blessed, beautiful silver trolley, and the scent that wafts toward us has my mouth watering. The muse-poof was a course, not the meal.Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.

I push the square plate back toward Arden. “Eat that thing. Quickly.”

The poor man literally scratches his head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

I don’t want to admit to my idiocy, but I’m already carrying the weight of a secret, even if he knows I have one. We’ll never work if I pile dishonesty on top of it. “I thought it was our entire dinner.”

He narrows his eyes. “You thought I served you a bite of pear and fig for dinner, and then took yours and left you with no food at all?”

“Just eat the pooch, Arden.”

He maintains eye contact as he swoops up the morsel, chews and swallows.

The steward clears the table and deposits a bowl with tiny slices of warm bread and a plate drizzled with oil and herbs. Arden glances at him. “Thank you, Martin.”

His name isMartin. Hallelujah.

I select a slice of warm bread, dip it in the oil and practically melt into my chair at how good it tastes. Then, I remember not to slouch or wiggle like a fish in a net and straighten in my seat. Elbows off the table? Still good there. I haven’t screwed that up, at least. Napkin still in my lap? Spine straight? Tiny bites? Knees tight together and legs crossed at the ankle? Check. Check. Check. And check. By the time I’m done running through my mental list, I’ve forgotten to enjoy the bread, especially when I look over at the way Arden is eating his and realize I was meant to transfer it to a plate and use a long, skinny fork to skewer it before I dipped it in the oil.

Once more, Martin disappears through the double doors.

Arden’s manner has become reserved and formal as he sits across from me.

“I’ve offended you.” I look down at my lap, twisting the linen napkin in agitation, then smoothing it. “I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding.”

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