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“Not even a little bit,” he says. “Trust me. Nothingwould tell them how much I like you more than my willingness to choke down broccoli.”

I’m laughing as I start to walk off.

“Wait. You didn’t tell me what this is.”

“It’s the burger from the first night,” I say. “You’ve been a pretty good sport about everything. I figured after getting stuck with broccoli, you should get something you really like.”

“But it’s the same thing I already had.”

“You’re a problem child.” I shake my head.

“How about this?” He points at the empty seat. “You eat this with me, and then you can bring me something else.”

“But you’ll have to wait even longer, and I can’t afford to sit down and share a meal.”

He hands me the burger. “Just take a bite every time you come by.”

Our fingers brush when I take it—can’t leave him hanging, plus I’m starving—and my heart lurches. “Fine. Just one.” But it’s a big bite, and the burger’s even better than I remembered. I close my eyes. “Man, that’s good,” I finally say.

I grab my second bite a few minutes later after I drop off another round of drinks for the table next to him. And when his pork chop with Portuguese clams is ready, I get a third. “This is kind of fun,” I admit.

“Really?” he asks. “Because this girl I like works nights, so I’m kind of always free. I could do this every night.”

I press a finger to his mouth. “Don’t even think about it.”

His eyes light up and he looks at my finger as his mouth curves into a half-grin.

I yank my hand away and wipe it on my apron.

“You sure about that?” He hands me the burger again.

By the time he’s finally done eating, it’s time for my shift to end.

“How about it?” he asks. “Stick around and eat dessert with me?”

I already told him I’d go on a date. How much worse is eating a dessert with him? Still, I feel like I have to ask for permission. “Lemme make sure it’s okay.”

It takes me a minute to track down the manager.

“Your boyfriend—who keeps coming and buying all kinds of things—wants you to finish your shift by eating with him? Food he’ll be paying for?” My manager Phil rolls his eyes. “Go ahead. Do it every night if he wants.” As I walk off, I hear him swear under his breath and mutter, “I miss the honeymoon stage of dating.”

A moment later, I carry out two strawberry arnaud lookalikes.

“What’s this?” Easton asks.

“Have you ever heard of the Strawberry Arnaud?” I ask.

“Should I have heard of it?”

I set his down in front of him, and then I walk around and sit across from him. It’s strange. . .and kind of amazing. “This famous restaurant in New Orleans offered it for a while. It was a million dollar—or three million, I suppose—dollar dessert.”

“It was—what?” His eyes bulge. “Did we really need two?”

“Relax,” I say. “The guy I’m dating says we can eat here every night.” I can’t help my grin.

“I mean, how many million is it?” He looks a little sick. I can’t tell whether he’s playing along, or whether he’s nervous.

“This one’s twenty dollars,” I say. “But it doesn’t come with any hidden extras.”

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