Page 55 of Loaded

“Look, when you’re fighting an uphill battle, you need every advantage you can get.”

“A battle?”

“Love’s a battlefield, baby—surely you’ve heard that.”

“Baby?”

“I heard it.” He cringes. “Look, not every swing is a hit.”

“But three strikes and you’re out,” I say. “And that was?—”

“Don’t say it was three. One, maybe.” He zips his mouth closed.

I laugh. “I’ll be back in a moment with your appetizer, sir. I’ve got other tables to check on.”

“I’ll be here, making sure your flowers don’t get stolen.”

He’s utterly absurd, but he’s growing on me. Which he shouldn’t be. We’re a terrible match, but apparently this day is about me doing all the things that usually scare me.

A few moments later, when I circle back around and drop off his appetizer, Easton frowns mightily. “Really?”

“What?” I tilt my head.

“Did I make you mad?” He looks at his plate forlornly. “Broccoli?”

“It’s called angry broccoli,” I say. “And it has a bit of a kick. Brace yourself.”

“Unless it has a bit of a completely-different-food underneath it, color me disappointed.”

“You did show up unannounced,” I say. “And you’re being a bit of a pain.”

“Ah, so this is a punishment appetizer.”

“It’s not even an appetizer,” I whisper. “It’s aside.”

“But last time, at least I got the hipster fries.”

“Last time, you were being less annoying.” I shrug. “Eat it or you risk offending your waitress.”

He pokes it. “How bad is that, really? Just offending her? Or, like, would not eating it downright tick her off?”

“Just try a bite, little boy, or I’ll send you to bed with no dinner.”

He sighs, but he saws off a smallish chunk and pops it in his mouth. He chews, chews, and swallows. “It’s not a homerun,” he says, “but it’s not a total disaster.”

“Since you seem very very opposed to broccoli, I guess I’ll take it.”

“You know, if my mom saw me here, she’d say I must really like you. When I was a kid, she couldn’t get me to eat a single bite of the stupid little trees. That’s what I called them.”

But when I circle back around with his meal, the entire plate’s clean. “Did you throw it in a plant or something?” I ask. “Or flush it? I’m pretty sure our toilets can’t handle that. I’d like a little warning if it’s going to back up. I can tell Harv who to bill.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “I imagine your toilets here are pretty powerful.”

“You didn’t really flush it, did?—”

“Relax,” he says. “I ate all of it so that when you meet my parents, you can tell them about what I did to impress you.”

“You’re kidding.”

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