Page 44 of The Disasters of Dating
“Yes, but I didn’t take your clothing into consideration. I think a good white sauce might be as devastating to your black shirt as the red soup was to your white one.” He lifts a brow.
I squint at him. “So, no white or dark-colored foods?”
He looks pensive for a moment, then he nods. “I think they’re both a risk. I’m afraid that has to be the rule.”
One side of my mouth quirks up. “So, only chicken broth-based soups or sauces?”
He pushes his lips out in an apologetic pout. “T’would seem it’s the only option.”
I sputter out a laugh. “T’would? Are we in a Jane Austen novel?”
He picks up his menu and opens it. “Weirder things have happened.” He looks intently at it. “And for the final rule, I must insist that if we are in close proximity, you forewarn me before you lean over, so I might step out of the tangle zone.”
I look at my menu as my head nods. “It seems you have thought a great deal on these rules.” Does that mean he’s thought of me a great deal, too? I lift my eyes to his. He smiles at me, and my heart thuds in my neck. I know I shouldn’t hope he thinks about me, but I can’t seem to block the thought. Geez, I need to slow this roll. “Do you always make rules before having dinner with…friends?” I inwardly cringe at putting him in the friend zone. But it really is the only option.
He seems unfazed by the ‘friend’ comment, so maybe I’m the only one who’s having these thoughts.
“Not usually. But you seem to be a special type of friend that requires such measures.” He glances back at the menu. “So, what is good here?”
I watch him for a moment longer. He looks good tonight. His hair is a little long, curling around his ears and collar. And for the first time, I’m noticing his eyes. They’re a deep brown. Nothing muddy about them. They remind me of my mom’s dark walnut wood table, with the same variations in color. And his shoulders are much broader than I remember. Maybe it’s because I usually see them burdened with a backpack. Let’s just say he makes the golf shirt look good.
He looks up at me, likely because I haven’t answered his question yet. Real smooth, Pops.
“The sweet potato ravioli is amazing. And I love their chicken salad—not the curry one. I’m not a fan of curry.”
He puts his menu down and stares at me open-mouthed. “You don’t like curry? How is that possible?”
“Quite easily, actually,” I give him a challenging look. “Is that a problem for you?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I mean, you do you, Boo. But I think it’s weird.”
I laugh. “Did you just call me Boo?”
“I did. I felt the moment called for such a drastic name.”
“You’re that committed to curry?”
He’s staring at the menu, rather than at me, but his lips are twitching. “I’m afraid I take my food very seriously.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I close my menu and look around the restaurant.
“Do you know what you’re having?” He asks.
I lean back in my chair. “Yeah, I’m going with the pasta with butternut squash and brown butter.”
He glances up at me. “How very vegan of you.”
I shake my head and give him a fake look of exasperation. “You don’t know much about vegans, do you? They would never eat something with butter.”
“I beg your pardon.” He grimaces, which turns into a frown as he looks back at the menu. “So many things look good. I can’t decide.” He snaps it closed and puts it to the side. “I’m never going to decide if I keep looking at the menu.”
The server approaches our table. “Can I get you any drinks? Or are you ready to order?” He asks in a deep, rich voice.
Keaton nods. “I’m ready to order. What about you, Poppy?”
At the last minute, I change my mind. “I’ll have J’s chicken salad, please.”
“And did you want that on a croissant or sourdough bread?”
