* * *
Trevor was waiting outside the restaurant for him.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” George said.
“You’re not late. I’m early. I’m always early.”
George smiled, holding out his hand. “I’m George. George Patras.”
Trevor accepted the handshake heartily. He was a good four inches taller than George—clean shaved, cleft chin, with dark brown eyes. “Yes. I’m Trevor. Trevor Crenshaw.”
Very handsome, George thought.Maybe this was a good idea after all.
Trevor opened the door, and they went inside.
* * *
He usually found it difficult deciding what to eat while dining out. He was open to most foods and always felt like he was missing out if he passed on something unusual. Art Smith was known for traditional southern comfort foods with hearty portions. He was especially known for his fried chicken and hummingbird cake. George had chosen Art and Soul for his and Trevor’s dinner-date so that he wouldn’t have to fret with decision-making. He had skipped lunch in anticipation, was hungry, and knew exactly what he wanted.
When the server, Scott, suggested cocktails, Trevor ordered a skinny margarita and George went with a glass of the house Chianti.
“So, how’s life in the accounting world?” George asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re an accountant, right? What’s going on in the world of accounting?”
“Oh,” Trevor said. “Nothing new. Just a regular week, you know—numbers.”
George smiled, nodding.
So much for small talk.
“And you’re a cook, right? Where?”
“A chef, yes. I was at The Old Ebbitt Grill for a long time. Now, I’m opening my own place. It’s called David’s. In Dupont.”
“Nice,” Trevor said. His phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Sorry.”
George glanced at the menu. He didn’t need to see it but sought distraction while Trevor busily tapped out a text on his phone.
The drinks arrived, and Trevor put his phone down. Scott recited the specials of the evening. After, he asked them if they were ready to order. Both men nodded.
“I’ll have Art’s Southern Fried Chicken with roasted potatoes and a side salad. And could you please bring us an order of the hush puppies with the pimento cheese spread and pepper jelly for an appetizer?”
“Excellent choices,” said Scott. “And you, sir?”
Trevor handed Scott the menu. “I’ll have the vegetable plate... but I’d like to substitute steamed broccoli for the mac and cheese, and no corn souffle. Just asparagus and a side salad, please. Vinaigrette on the side.”
The server busily wrote the substitutions and thanked them. “I’ll have that appetizer right out.” He turned to go.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were vegan?” George asked.
“I’m not.”
“Oh. It sounded like you were customizing for a vegan diet. I could have suggested another restaurant more suitable. We could have gone Asian.”
“No. It’s all fine.” Trevor’s phone buzzed again. He picked it up, texting something quick and setting it back down. “Where were we?”
