Page 30 of Christmas in Watch Hill
“Looks like an extensive bourbon list.” He flipped a few pages. “I didn’t expect that.”
“A lot of restaurants have expanded their bourbon offerings given how close we are to the Kentucky bourbon trial. Sort of a way to capitalize on that.”
He stopped on a page in the middle of the list and looked up at me. “We should order some.”
“Some bourbon?” I almost choked on the words.
He nodded.
“No,” I said a little too sharply. “I mean . . . I’m not a big drinker.” I wrinkled my nose. “It’s not my thing.”
“That’s a bit of a surprise. You drank plenty of tequila the night we shared in DC.”
“Well, um . . . that was . . .tequila. This is bourbon.”
“That’s fine, we don’t have to order any.” He turned a few more pages of the list. “We’ll simply get a bottle of red wine. Or would you want white?”
“No.” Heat rushed to my checks. I wasn’t handling this well, and I knew it. “I mean—I don’t think I should drink any alcohol tonight. I’m still getting over that stomach bug, and I don’t want to risk it.”
“Fair enough.” He closed the drink folio. “But I hope you don’t mind if I order a glass of something.”
“That’s fine. Totally fine. I wouldn’t expect you to change your order because of me.”
I exhaled a little, glad that I made it through that test without having to admit the pregnancy yet. I wasn’t sure how I wanted to tell Ian the news, but I didn’t want to do it over dinner. That didn’t feel right. I opened my menu and took in the scripted list of appetizers, salads, and entrees.
“What are you in the mood for tonight?”
“I say we go all out. Nothing is off the table.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said, forcing myself to remain steady and calm.
We didn’t say much until the waiter returned to the table. I ordered a caprese salad and braised pork belly. Ian ordered a Caesar salad and Amish chicken breast. The waiter was about to finish, but then Ian’s face changed.
“You know what I’m thinking?” he asked. “Let’s get some of the escargot, too.” He looked at me and raised a hand. “Sound good? I was looking at that on the menu, and—”
“No,” I said, this time my sharpest reply yet. “I don’t . . . I don’t want the escargot.”
He blinked. “You don’t? Well that’s okay, it’s a bit of an acquired taste, anyway. I understand that some people don’t like it.”
The waiter agreed and suggested the restaurant’s breadbasket instead, saying it was one of the best in the region and offered a smattering of different kinds of breads, from sweet to salty. At least I didn’t have to argue against that. We finished ordering, and I relaxed a little.So far, so good.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m really looking forward to trying this food,” Ian said when we were alone at the table again. “I eat out a lot in DC, but most of the time wind up going to the same Capitol Hill haunts. And I rarely have the chance to eat something that isn’t mired with the networking required of my job as a lobbyist.”
“That’s a shame. I’m excited about this fare, too. That pork belly sounds delicious.”
My chest tightened and I felt the pressure around us increase. I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to keep this up, and time was running out. Ian needed to know I was pregnant. Hedeservedto know. This wasn’t the kind of thing I could keep from him, the reality of it had implications for him, too.
By the time our salads arrived, I’d had enough. Screw the plan. The timing for this kind of news didn’t get any better. Grabbing the arm of my chair, I steeled myself.
“I have something to tell you,” I said over our decorative, delicious looking meals. “And it can’t wait any longer.”
“What is it?”
I sucked in a final, steadying breath. “I’m pregnant.”
His eyes widened, and he dropped his fork, which clattered to the floor. “What?”
