The waiter disappears into the dimly lit interior of the restaurant, leaving us alone at our small table nestled by a window. Candlelight flickers between us, creating soft shadows over the glossy red walls adorned with vintage posters and tiny gold-framed mirrors.
I fiddle with my napkin, suddenly hyperaware that the man across from me is basically a stranger, his masked eyes steady on mine. The silence feels loaded, like neither of us is sure what to say next. Under the table, I cross my ankles. Maybe feeling awkward around a hundred strangers is better than this.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “we’re keeping the masks on.”
“Yes, we are,” I reply, trying to sound casual as I sip my water.
He hums. “Why’s that?”
“This is a small town. Only five thousand of us.”
“I’m aware.”
“Well, I know a lot of people.”
His mouth twitches. “You don’t want to be seen with me?”
“I don’t want to be seen withanyone. People talk, and I’d rather not give them a reason to. Or…morereasons.” I glance around, imagining the gossip mill working overtime if anyone spotted us together. “I have a no-dating-in-Willowbrook policy in place.”
More like a “no-dating-at-all” policy, but anyway.
“And you broke your rule for me.” He mimics a bow. “I’m flattered.”
“You’rewrong, you mean. This isn’t a date.”
“Isn’t it?” he asks, just as the waiter glides over, then sets the bottle of wine down with an exaggerated flourish. Fair enough—this feels a little date-y.
“If it were, I’d probably be okay with us taking the masks off.”
Rafael tilts his head as if to say “Touché,” then silently fills his glass halfway. Once I point at mine, too, he says, “I thought you didn’t drink.”
Two strangers who probably share little except an awkward dinnerneedwine.
“Turns out I just wasn’t motivated enough.”
The waiter comes back with different types of bread and beautiful, glistening dipping oils. They smell spiced, and the bread looks crispy. I swear, even if I did end up onDateline, this would still be worth it.
I quickly break off a piece of bread and dip it in the oil, then bring it to my lips. My stomach growls on cue, reminding me this is the first thing I’ve eaten the whole day. And God, it’s delicious. “Wow.” I point at the small pot. “You need to try this.”
He stifles a laugh, taking a piece of bread from the basket. “Can I at least know your name?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Really? We could be cousins—us being on a date could get weird.”
I go in for a second dip. “We’re not cousins.”
Smug, he grins. “So thisisa date.”
Before I can retort, the waiter strides over again and sets down the plate of truffle arancini, the golden-brown balls glistening under the dim restaurant lights. Next comes the heirloom tomato bruschetta, stacked like miniature towers of vibrant red and green.
“Enjoy,” he says, his tone flat, before turning to leave, a whiff of truffle oil leaving me momentarily speechless.
This isexactlythe type of delicious, pretentious food I pictured.
“You look pleased.”
I smack my lips. “Still not a date.”
