Ben glanced toward me but kept his gaze low, not meeting my eyes. "Does that mean you're friends? That's it? That's all that's going on?"
"It means we're hanging out." I shrugged. "I like it. He's funny and interesting and—"
"And he's got a lotta cash," Ben interrupted.
"That's not part of my mental calculus," I replied. "Nor has it ever come up in conversation."
"Still don't like him," Ben said under his breath.
"That's good," I replied. "You're not the one hanging out with him."
"Not for nothing but we basically had a three-way lunch date," Ben replied. "We should do that again. It was entertaining."
"You know," I said, pointing at him with my apple core, "you make that sound like a threat."
Ben gathered up the empty cans and tinfoil, still avoiding my stare. "Nah. I don't make threats. Just promises."
Chapter Fourteen
My date was edgy.
He'd read the wine list cover to cover, set it aside. Straightened his tie, the tablecloth, his water goblet. Then he reread the wine list, scowling and shaking his head like the pages insulted his origin and ethnicity. When he was finished with that exercise, he glanced around the restaurant. This wasn't the type of place I frequented so I didn't know what he was looking for.
If anything, I was busy dying by degrees because we were at a new swanky-fancy restaurant in the Back Bay and I was wearing a jersey knit dress. Probably hadn't spent more than ten dollars on it. It still qualified as a simple black dress thing but that wasn't the point. I hadn't realized we were going somewhere swanky-fancy, but I was delighted I'd changed out of my knee-high yellow rainboots beforehand.
"Would you like to share a bottle of red?" Rob asked, his pointer finger pressed against the wine menu. "Do you…do you like red?"
As far as conversation went, this was a major improvement. Since meeting him at this restaurant, he'd only managed to ask how I was doing, how my day went, and now, if I wanted to go halfsies on some Bordeaux. That, and all the scowling, straightening, and side-eye glances he'd been shooting my way.
"Is everything all right, Rob?" I folded my hands in my lap. I hadn't seen him since that afternoon at the bakery café and he'd been traveling for work the past week so his texts had been few and far between. When he'd arrived back in Boston last night, he'd insisted we meet for dinner. I'd agreed right away because I'd wanted to see him too. "You're not yourself tonight."
He started to respond, his lips parted and his brows knit as if he was about to impart something profound. But then he snapped his mouth shut and pressed both palms to his eyes.
"I'm having a hard time with the fact you're hanging out with the firefighter," he said from behind his hands. "It's really fucking with me right now."
I rolled my eyes and took a swig from my water glass. This would've been the perfect moment for wine to appear. I had to deal with Ben complaining about Rob over the weekend and now I was dealing with Rob complaining about Ben. In all my fantasies about being the object of dual affection, I'd never once accounted for the time and energy I'd put into project managing that affection.
And it wasn't even dual affection, not really. Ben was an epic flirt and nothing more. He talked a big game and he had swagger for days, but much like his home improvement prowess, I didn't think there was anything behind any of it. He was grieving and his periodic displays of possessiveness were likely a strange product of that. He wanted to hold on to anything he could. It broke my heart.
Rob was a different story. He liked challenges, I was sure of it, and he interpreted my refusal to let him blindly fuck away his ex as just that. He wanted me because he couldn't have me—not the way he wanted. He liked it when I called him on his games and pushed back on his bullshit, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't like it too. There was something about Rob that clicked with me. Andy insisted it was my need to fix him but if there was anyone in need of fixing in this runoff, it was Ben.
"Why is that?" I asked. "Why is it an issue for me to help my neighbor with a project at his house when A, I'm good at that work and I enjoy it and B, it's not about you?"
Rob folded his forearms on the table with a sigh. It was a ragged, broken noise that suggested this conversation—this specific topic—was causing him a measure of agony. "You're going to make me talk about my baggage and my shit. Aren't you?"
Men.They had the nerve to insist women were the fairer sex. The ones who couldn't see through the haze of their hormones. The wildly emotional ones. The ones who couldn't be trusted with parking, credit cards, front-line combat, nuclear codes.
Fucking men.
Not that it was worth my worry in the first place but I wasn't fretting over my t-shirt dress anymore.
I motioned to the table, the restaurant. "Is there something else you'd rather do tonight? Because I don't need any of this. I don't need to name-check the cool new place on my Instagram or with my friends. But I do need my dinner date to put up or shut up when it comes to the issues he flags on the regular. So, Rob"—I peered at him—"what's it going to be?"
He tilted his head. It was only a few degrees but it shifted his entire countenance from sulky to seriously sexy. "Since you asked, there is something else I'd rather do," he said, his gaze fixed on my lips. "I'd do it right here if we had the place to ourselves."
Okay. Yes. That was seriously sexy but it wasn't working on me. I wasn't the kind of lady who could switch from totally annoyed to totally turned on with one well-placed head tilt.
"Since we don't have the place to ourselves and I'm waiting on this water to turn into wine—a Pinot Grigio, if you please—why don't you explain why you're being salty about something that requires no salt whatsoever?"
