Page 15 of Not Your Valentine
“I’m just saying that because…you know.” He gestures vaguely. “But if you prefer—”
“No, no!” I get it now. He was doing it as part of our fake dating act, which makes me feel strangely disappointed. Geez, what is wrong with me today?
He takes off his jacket and toque.
“You look nice, too,” I say. As part of our act, of course…but he does look good, and today, we don’t match. He’s wearing a black dress shirt with faint silver stripes, and his hair is pulled back in a low ponytail.
“No raccoon delays?”
“No, I managed to avoid that.”
He nods at the menu. “What looks good?”
I start to relax as we discuss the food. He’s his usual smiling self, and it’s just like our regular meet-ups, even if this restaurant is slightly fancier than the places we usually frequent and there’s a small candle on the table between us.
After we place our orders, I say, “Thank you again for the flowers.” I thanked him via text, but for some reason, I feel the need to thank him in person. “They really were beautiful.”
“‘Were?’ I hope they’re still doing well today. I want them to last.”
“I’m sure they will.”
He looks happy that I’m pleased with them, which is…nice.
“My friends saw the picture,” I say. “The group chat was quite the happening place. My sister saw it, too, and she told my parents, and then my mom called me…”
Yep, that single picture, not to my surprise, set off quite the chain of events.
“Your sister told your parents?” he asks.
“I told her to,” I say. “Figured it was easier than telling them myself.”
“I always wished I had a sibling. Well, I do have siblings, but it’s not the same.”
I’m momentarily caught off guard. How did I not know he had siblings? They must be on his mom’s side. I’m sure he would have mentioned if his father had any other kids, but he almost never mentions his mother, no matter how long we’ve been friends.
“Half siblings? Step siblings?” I ask.
“My mom has two daughters, but they’re much younger than me—they’re in high school—and I don’t know them very well.”
I’m unsure what to say in response, but I’m saved from having to make conversation by the arrival of our spinach borani and flatbread.
Mmm. This dip is amazing.
Taylor hasn’t tried it yet; he’s in the process of unbuttoning his cuffs, and my gaze is drawn to his forearms. I can’t help watching as he rolls up his left sleeve then his right sleeve, his fingers moving with brisk efficiency. His arms, covered in a sprinkling of hair, look lean and strong, and I swallow hard.
At last, he tastes our appetizer.
“It’s really good,” he says. “As good as your sounds suggested.”
“My sounds?”
“The ones you make when you’re enjoying your food.”
For some reason, I can’t help imagining that I was making Meg-Ryan-in-the-diner noises, even though I’m sure that’s not what was happening.
“They’re discreet, don’t worry,” Taylor says, as though he can tell I’m a bit panicked.
“I—”
