Page 30 of The Hot Shot
I quickly find out that Finn loves seafood. As in, he’ll happily drive to an out-of-the-way roadside restaurant to get his fix. He takes me to Middendorf’s overlooking the lake for what he promises will be a feast.
We sit on the patio, and soft breezes coming off the water stir my hair. It’s one of those perfect Louisiana fall days when the temperature is in the low seventies and the sun is shining brightly. I relax with a sigh of contentment.
Finn, on the other hand, is practically twitching with the anticipatory promise of food. “Their thin fried catfish is why we’re here.” He eyeballs me. “You do like catfish?”
“Can’t comment one way or the other on it,” I tell him. “I don’t remember the last time I had any.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat.” He rubs his hands together like a little boy. “Do you want a white wine?”
“Please don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who thinks everyone who has a vagina must drink white wine.” It’s fun to tease him. He never gives in.
“It’s a pussy, Chess. Save vagina for your OB.” He flashes a quick smile. “And, no. Just so happens that every woman I’ve taken out orders white wine. Or a club soda with lime.” He frowns, perplexed. “What’s with the club soda thing, anyway?”
“I have no idea.” I look over the menu. “I’m getting a beer.”
“Excellent.” His glee over our impending meal is contagious.
The waitress shows at that moment and practically trips over herself when she sees him. I don’t blame her; a happy Finn is almost too pretty to take in at once. You have to brace yourself and look at him in stages.
Oblivious of our covetous stares, Finn orders the beers and catfish. “Oh, and some oysters and crawfish. Could you bring it all at once, please?”
“I hate oysters and crawfish,” I tell him as our waitress leaves.
He gasps and sags in his seat as if weakened. “Sacrilege, Chester.”
“Fried oysters are fine,” I say with a light shrug. “But raw? Nope. Salty snot pellets.”
Finn glances up at the sky. “Lord, she knows not of what she speaks.”
“And crawfish tastes muddy to me.”
“A good muddy,” he counters.
“There is no such thing as good mud.”
“Girl-on-girl mud wrestling.” His expression dares me to argue.
“Guy-on-guy mud wrestling,” I amend.
He salutes me. “Fair enough.”
The waitress soon returns and sets down two icy bottles of beer and our food. The rich scent of fried seafood rises up, and my mouth actually waters. I take a bite of paper-thin, golden catfish and moan.
“Right?” Finn says with an approving nod.
Crispy and light, it is fried-food mana. “I’m in love,” I tell him.
The corners of his eyes crinkle, and we sit there eyeing each other like happy thieves. “You know what’s weird,” I say in a low voice, as if by whispering I’ll make the moment last longer.
Maybe he feels the same because he answers just as softly. “What?”
“I’m having more fun on this nondate date than I’ve had on all dates this past year.” Maybe longer.
Finn’s gaze warms. “Me, too.”
Somewhere around the region of my heart, everything gets all tender. I feel like I’m falling, lightheaded and confused. My fingers curl around the edges of the table just to hold on.
Finn clears his throat and takes a large bite of his fish. “So,” he says around a mouthful. “Dating sucks for you?”
