Page 83 of The Late Hit
The restaurant is gorgeous. It’s way too much for our first date, but I appreciate him putting in so much thought to get us here. The chophouse is adult-only, with its moody setting and white-cloth-covered tables that contrast perfectly against the black booths and chairs. Plexiglass is attached to each booth, giving you an even more private dining experience. For a Thursday, the place is packed. Quinton and I slide our way through those waiting, and make our way to the hostess stand.
“Good evening, welcome to Carver’s,” the bubbly hostess greets us. She’s extremely professional in the fact that she doesn’t spend any extra time on Quinton. “What is the name under?”
“Quinton Boyd.”
The hostess looks over her tablet and finds our name quickly. “Right this way, Mr. Boyd.”
Placing his hand on the small of my back—my body ignites from where his hand touches the exposed skin of my lower back—Quinton guides me to follow the waitress.
Eyes follow us as the hostess guides us to a booth against the wall toward the back of the restaurant. As we slide into our seats on opposite sides of the table, the waitress places our menus down in front of us.
Opening up the menu, my eyes catch on the prices next to each item. My eyes bulge like they’re about to bug out of my head. I knew the restaurant was fancy, but I wasn’t expecting this.
“Quinton, this is way too much.”
He doesn’t even glance above his menu. “Brynn, I wanted to do this for you. It’s fine. Get whatever you want.”
Deciding not to press the subject, I go back to browsing the menu. There are so many things that jump out at me.
“Good evening. What can I start you two off with?” our server asks.
Quinton glances up at me, raising his eyebrows in a gesture for me to go first.
“I’ll take a glass of sauvignon blanc.”
“Of course, and you, sir?”
“Buffalo Trace. And an order of oysters, please.”
The waiter nods before leaving our table.
“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” Quinton asks, taking a sip of the water that was placed on the table.
Blushing, I bring my water glass up to my mouth, taking a sip to hide the flush that paints my skin.
“Whatcha hungry for?” I ask, changing the subject. Taking compliments is hard. Like genuine comments, not the whole “you’re hot” comment, but true compliments take me off guard.
“You want to share some stuff?” Quinton asks.
Vulnerability stretches across his face. Not one to wear his emotions on his sleeve, he never has, but tonight I can read him like a book. Nervous energy radiates off him. Mr. Cool and Confident is nervous tonight. As twisted as it sounds, it makes me feel good. Not because I want him to be nervous, but because it helps settle my nerves.
“I’m always down to share.” Q chokes on the sip of water he was mid-drink. “Food,” I rush out. “I’m always down to share food. You. Oh, hell no, I’m not sharing you with anyone.”
Stop talking. Stop talking. Stop talking.
A red flag has to be waving above my head.“Stage five clinger alert! Avoid! Avoid! Avoid!”
His coughing fit comes to an end. Only a few heads turned our way, and I can feel my face flaming again.
“Thanks for the clarification.” He laughs. I want to record the happiness that expels from him and play it on rainy days. “And just so we’re clear, I don’t share either.”
“Good to know.” I bring the water glass back up to my mouth. Where is the waiter? I could really use that glass of wine right about now.
“Since we’ve established you love to share.” Quinton smirks at me, humor lacing his face. “What are you thinking? I can do ‘turf’ if you want to do the ‘surf?’”
“Works for me,” I answer, scanning the menu again. “Order whatever sounds good. I’m not picky.”
Our waiter returns, places our drinks down in front of us, and takes our order. Quinton orders a center-cut filet with potato puree, while I order the lobster with crab stuffing and asparagus. My mouth is watering just thinking about all the food we are about to eat. Jotting down our order, the waiter leaves us to enjoy our oysters.
