We get to our table, and Ash pulls out my chair for me. I can’t help remembering how I’d dreaded the thought of Barry doing this weeks ago, but all thoughts of Barry vanish as Ash’s hand skims along my shoulder before he takes his own chair.
The second we’re seated, waitstaff descend on the table. They pour water for us, hand us steaming towelettes that we use to wash our hands, and set down bread and a shot glass of what appears to be some kind of cold fruit puree.
“Would you like to see the wine list?” one of them asks.
Ash looks at me, and I nod at the waiter. “Yes, please.”
Something tells me I won’t find anything here in my price range, but I need to look out of morbid curiosity. Ash said he was ‘taking me out to dinner’ tonight, and I have a feeling he’ll insist on paying, but I still planto order as if I’m covering my half of the bill.
The waiter hands me a tablet, and I start clicking on options to see what they have for wine. As anticipated, most of the prices are out of my comfort zone, but I’m determined to find something I can drink.
“I take it you like wine,” Ash says.
I give him an apologetic smile. “I love wine. I never developed a taste for beer. Do you like it?”
“I’ve never had good wine,” he says. “Maybe you can teach me a thing or two about it.”
“I’ve never had wine like this,” I admit, gesturing to the menu. “This is all a bit out of my normal fare.”
“Get whatever you want,” he says. “Don’t look at price. It’s my treat.”
I huff a small laugh as I continue to scan the options. “That’s very generous, but…Oh my God. Scarecrow.”
“What?” Ash asks.
I look up at him. “They have Scarecrow Wine. It’s a vineyard that was owned by J.J. Cohn, who was an executive producer onThe Wizard of Oz. His land was right next to Inglenook, and the winemaker there convinced Cohn in the 1940s to plant grapes he could buy. Now it’s basically a boutique winery that sells almost exclusively to members. I didn’t even know restaurants could carry it.”
“Maybe Chef Avery is a member,” Ash suggests.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Have we found something we like?” a waiter asks, appearing tableside as if conjured from thin air.
“We’ll take a bottle of the Scarecrow,” Ash says.
I look up at him in alarm. I could buy a used car for the price of the bottle. I mean, not a good used car, a clunker maybe, but still.
“Ash, the bottle is-,” I try to warn him, but he cuts me off.
“Scarecrow,” he assures the waiter, who takes the hint and scurries off before I can protest any more.
I stare at him, but he just shrugs.
“I like spoiling my woman,” he says.
I lean toward him. “I’m not actually your woman. We’re pretending, remember?” I say in a low voice.
His jaw clenches, and I lean back, aware I’ve upset him somehow.
“Until we officially fake break up,” Ash says, “youaremy woman, and I plan to treat you like I’d treat someone I was dating.”
There’s a slight bite to his voice, and I nod slowly. Experience tells me I’ve wounded his masculine pride, but that doesn’t fit with the Ash I’ve gotten to know the last few weeks.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
His face softens, and he shakes his head. “You didn’t offend me. I just get the feeling the men you’ve dated haven’t treated you very well, so the men you fake date will just have to make up for it.”
I can’t help the smile that creeps up my face. “You’re insane,” I say, too moved by the sentiment to adequately express my gratitude. Saying thank you seems too trite or maybe too intimate at the moment, so I opt for a mild insult to mask my discomposure.
