Page 96 of Story of My Life
The hell she was.
“I already hate this,” I told her.
The guybehind the host stand had a pencil-thin mustache and too much hair product and was giving off restaurant-guy-from-Ferris-Bueller’s-Day-Offvibes.
I was ninety percent sure the head-to-toe examination he gave me was to ensure my fucking attire was fucking appropriate. I gave him a “fuck around and find out” look that had him fumbling leather-bound menus thicker than my high school history textbook.
Places like this irritated me. I’d much rather belly up to the bar at the Fish Hook or grab a pizza and a beer at Angelo’s. But Hazel Hart hadfine diningwritten all over her.
The host led us to a table in the center of the too-bright, too-crowded dining room and all but elbowed me out of the way to pull out her chair. He disappeared with a snap of the snowy-white napkin in her lap, and we were left to stare at each other.
“Come here often?” she asked, opening the gigantic wine menu.
Before I could answer, a woman in a bow tie, vest, and white apron appeared and started explaining the night’s specials. I got bored around the truffles, and she lost me entirely during the salmon mousse. I was definitely getting a burger when this fiasco was over.
“And of course the Three Sisters sauvignon blanc pairs perfectly with our scallops. May I start you off with a bottle?” the server suggested. My gaze landed on the wine she’d just mentioned. At $300 a bottle, I hoped to hell Taylor Swift herself had personally crushed the grapes.
“You know what? I’ll have a glass of your house chardonnay,” Hazel said.
“Beer. Lager if you’ve got it.”
“We have a local lager on tap, or I’m pleased to offer you the IPA gelatin appetizer. It’s served on a tasting spoon and topped with an apricot foam.”
I squashed the urge to bang my head against the table. “For the love of God. I’ll just have a normal beer that comes out of a normal tap,” I said in desperation.
The server disappeared, and Hazel shot me a look over her menu. “You bring your dates to a place that serves quail eggs?”
“No. I broughtyouhere.”
She closed her menu with a snap. “You were supposed to take me on a Campbell Bishop date.”
“A Campbell Bishop date is whatever I think the date will like.” And now she had me first- and last-naming myself. This woman was going to drive me either insane or into an early grave. Possibly both at the same time.
“Cam, you’ve seen me explode instant oatmeal in a microwave and that made you think I’d like the ‘curated microgastronomy of kelp and turmeric’?” she said.
“How the hell should I know what you like? I met you five seconds ago.”
Her brown eyes sharpened, and she lifted her chin. “You’re torpedoing this date on purpose!”
“Why would I do that?” I hedged.
“Gee, let me count the ways. So I don’t ask you for more help. So I leave you alone and you can stop riding to my rescue. So youcan blow me off without hurting my feelings and jeopardizing the job.” She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “This is just like when a guy asks a woman to iron his shirt because ‘you do it better and I’ll just make a mess of it.’ You’re weaponized-incompetence-ing me.”
I knew exactly what she was talking about because I’d tried that scam on my mother as a teenager over dirty laundry. It had worked exactly zero times. In fact, it had earned me laundry duty for the entire family for a month until Ilearned the basicssince Mom didn’t feel right aboutturning me loose on the world not knowing how to work a washer and dryer.
A woman who could see through your bullshit was a blessing and a curse.
“Look, you can’t just expect me to be a Jake,” I said, looking desperately for an out. I’d miscalculated this whole thing by trying to weasel out of it, and now I was the one suffering for it.
“Apparently. My heroes are way better at reading heroines than you are. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have—wait a second. What do you mean ‘a Jake’?” she asked.
I did what I should have done ten seconds ago and shut my mouth.
The server returned with our drinks. “May I interest you in a premeal probiotic palate cleanser made from fermented cabbage and mung beans?” she asked.
“You may not,” Hazel said, not breaking eye contact with me.
“We’ll need another minute,” I said. She left silently, like an apron-clad ninja. And I picked up the frosty glass of beer.
