Page 21 of Rich Girl
I fight hard to contain my laughter when her eyes widen in shock.
“The pope? What pope?”
“The one at the Vatican. Pope Benedict,” I explain. “You must not be Catholic. Although, I’d have thought everyone knew who Pope Benedict was.”
She continues staring at me, mouth opening and closing every so often, at a complete loss for words.
“It never came up in conversation,” she finally says. “I’ll have to look it up.”
“You should,” I point at her. “It’s an interesting read.”
I can tell from the expression on her face that she is questioning her own sanity right now. She doesn’t think meeting me was as good of an idea as she was hoping. Seriously though, who doesn’t know who the pope is?
The waitress comes to the rescue when she pops out of nowhere.
“Are you folks ready to order?”
“We haven’t looked over the menu yet…”
Hayden cuts me off. “Just a salad for me.Greensalad,” she enunciates. “No tomatoes, three slice of cucumbers. No croutons.”
The waitress doesn’t skip a beat. “What kind of dressing.”
“No dressing.”
“No dressing?” The waitress sounds as incredulous as I feel. “Just dry salad.”
Hayden gives her a polite smile. “Just the salad. And a bottle of mineral water.Glassbottle,” she clarifies. “No plastic.”
The way she speaks, you can tell that she is accustomed to making demands without being questioned. She raises an eyebrow in challenge when the waitress remains quiet. You could cut the tension with a knife.
“I’ll have a steak, medium rare, charred, with a side of mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli.”
Hayden’s eyes fall on me at hearing my order. You’d think I just announced that I am about to go and butcher the cow that the steak will be coming from.
“And a beer. House. Nothing fancy.”
With a big smile on her face, the waitress writes it all down before turning away, a pep in her step. I follow her with my eyes until she is out of sight, kinda wishing she was my date right now. I bet she’d be more down to earth than Hayden Benedict over here, who’s never even heard of the pope.
She stares at me for what feels like forever. In all honesty, if she wasn’t this hot, I’d have bolted out of here by now. She is not my type, personality-wise, not even to take her to one event and be done with. And even with the hotness factored in, I’m not sure this is a good idea.
“So…” She rests her elbow on the table and rests her chin on the palm of her hand. “You’re a steak and potatoes kind of guy.”
Apparently, she is not used to that.
“And you’re a salad only kinda girl. No dressing.”
I’m not used to that either. I like a girl who likes to eat, not just pretend to.
Suddenly, she looks disappointed. Her confidence is still there, but it went down a notch.
“This is not what you were hoping for?”
The look of surprise at my question confirms that I was correct.
“You’re just different than what I am used to,” she admits. “But I still like you a lot. And I’d a least like to finish this dinner with you tonight.”
Instant relief floods my system. I really didn’t want to drag this on. What would be the point of wasting each other’s time? If we’re not a good fit, and we know it, we wouldn’t be able to sell our story. I don’t care about the Cinco de Mayo party since my friends already know what the deal is. But her wedding deal sounds more intense, and this would be a problem.
