“You really like French food?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not really. I just heard they had good wine and a killer chocolate mousse.”
“All the makings of a great dinner,” I smile, reassuring him.
When the server appears, Nash orders a bottle of something red, then defers to me for the food. “Ladies first. What are you having?”
I scan the menu and pick something safe: steak frites, medium rare, with a side salad. Nash follows suit, but adds escargot as a starter.
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow.
“What? I’m a man of culture.” He grins. “Besides, I want to see your face when you try one.”
The conversation is easy, almost dangerous in how quickly the difficulties of the day melt away. We talk about work, music, our dreams for the future. He listens, really listens, asking questions that make me feel seen. When the wine arrives, he pours for me first, and we clink our glasses.
The server returns and places the escargot in the middle of the table. Nash wastes no time in daring me to try it. I do, becausepride, and the garlic butter nearly masks the fact that I am eating a garden pest.
“So?” he asks.
“Texture of a gummy bear, flavor of a garlic knot,” I declare. “Try one.”
He does, making a less-than-pleased face as he chews.
“I think you missed your calling as a food critic,” he coughs out. “Because that was spot on.”
I laugh, thinking about how much I enjoy spending time with him.
The main course is perfect. The wine flows, and with it, my guard lowers. I find myself touching his hand when I want to emphasize a point, laughing louder than I mean to, and flirting back when he compliments me.
When the check comes, Nash doesn’t look at the bill, just slides a card across and goes back to sipping his wine.
“So, what do you think?” he asks.
“Of the food, or the company?”
He pretends to ponder. “Both. But mostly the company.”
I tilt my head, letting the silence stretch. “The company was much better than the escargot, and the escargot was, honestly, not terrible.”
He smiles, but behind it is something softer, like maybe this is more important to him than he’s letting on.
“Good. I was hoping to impress you.”
I can’t help the stupid grin stretching across my face.
“You did.”
Nash stands, looking pleased with himself, and grabs my hand, leading me out of the restaurant. Outside, the air is cool. The lights of the bistro flicker behind us, gold against the gathering dark. I watch Nash as he fetches the helmets.
The wine from dinner has now fully settled in my bloodstream, making me unusually bold. He hands me the helmet, but I hold on to it, looking up at him.
“So,” I say, “have you ever had sex on your motorcycle?”
Nash blinks, caught off-guard, and then a flush spreads up from his neck.
“No,” he says, grinning. “Can’t say I’ve even tried.”
I shrug, coy. “A bike that looks this good should be christened properly, don’t ya think?”
