Page 32 of The Single Dad's Guide to Recreation

More what, I wonder?

On the way to the restaurant, I try to keep my nerves at bay with small talk about food, from the fact that the restaurant makes its own pasta and sources its ingredients locally to the hugely popular new reality show,Yes, Chef!By the time we’re seated at a two-top in the candlelit dining room, my stomach’s rumbling but my heart continues to skitter from one worry to the next.

Until the waitress shows up with a bottle of wine and a big smile on her face. “I hear we have a special occasion tonight.”

“We do?” Josh asks.

Unable to resist the impulse, I grasp his hand and makeLet’s play along and see what it gets useyes at him. “Oh, honey. Of course we do.”

“Well,” Josh says, a ghost of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know if I’d call a third anniversary special.”

“Whoever made this reservation thinks you deserve to be spoiled, I’d say. They ordered the chef’s tasting menu.” She begins the uncorking process. “Which includes this very nice bottle of wine.”

“A whole bottle?” I wince. “We have to get back to Climax tonight.”

Her eyes go wide. “Uh…”

I slap my hands to my face and Josh laughs before clarifying. “To thetownof Climax.”

“Ohhh,” the waitress says, her face red. “Sorry, I always forget about that place.”

Josh's smile grows, but it’s all for me.

“Anyhoo,” the waitress says. “Don’t worry. If you don’t finish the wine, we can recork it and you can take it with you to finish your, uh… celebration at home. In Climax. I’ll stop talking about that now.”

After explaining the vintage using a bunch of fancy wine words, she pours a tiny bit and offers it to me to taste. I try to get Josh to do it, but he insists, so I do my best. “Tastes like wine!”

“That’s good.” The waitress grins as she fills our glasses. “As long as there are no food allergies or aversions, we will proceed with the tasting menu.”

I rub my hands together. “Sounds amazing.”

Once we’re alone again, Josh leans across the table to whisper, “I’m sorry. My mother can get a little carried away.”

“I’m excited. I’ve never had a tasting menu. I’m not even sure what one is, exactly. And who knows, if they think we’re celebrating, we might get some free stuff.”

I’m doing my best to play it cool, but I’m not only worried about work stuff. Fancy restaurants make me nervous, which makes me even klutzier than usual. I inevitably knock over a glass or trip on my way to the bathroom or bump into a waiter carrying a tray full of steaming hot food that ends up in someone else’s lap.

That only happened once, thank goodness, but Peter never let me forget it.

This place isn’t intimidating, though. It’s probably expensive, but it’s also homey. There are only three people working the place, and just ten tables. The food turns out to be deceivingly simple. The green salad has the usual cucumbers and tomatoes, but pickled onions and a charred onion-feta dressing make it so tasty that I’m fighting Josh for the last forkful. When the pasta course arrives—cacio e pepe—I almost tell him he can have it all, because my bum doesn’t need any more padding.

“Cacio e pepe is a traditional dish from the Lazio region,” the server explains. “The phrase means ‘cheese and pepper’ and that’s precisely what it is. Our fresh pasta is tossed with locally made butter along with imported Parmesan and Pecorino. Buon appetito.”

Josh won’t take a forkful until I do, however, so I twirl a few strands onto my fork and push the plate toward him before putting it in my mouth. But when my tongue wraps around the unexpected explosion of flavor and velvety texture, I can’t contain a moan of pleasure.

Blinking my eyes open, I find him staring at me, his expression wolfish. “Still want me to eat it all?”

I grab the edge of the plate and pull it back toward me. “Who gives a flying fish about calories.”

We don’t quite end up nose to nose with the last strand of pasta alaLady and the Tramp, but it’s close.

The rest of the evening goes by in a flash. Everything’s so easy between us that I almost forget about all the complications, from the sticky situation at the rec center to the fact that he’s a grieving widower. But on the drive home, he goes quiet, and it’s not one of those comfortable silences. I’m bouncing back and forth between the impulse to let him off the hook versus the very real desire to kiss him again, when he clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Avery.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know about you, but this all feels like a setup.” When he glances over, confusion must be written all over my face because he adds, “I don’t think she broke her ankle on purpose, but everything that followed… my mom’s matchmaking came on pretty strong.”

“What if I didn’t mind?”

---