“Were they awful?” Simon asks the question with that bright smile on his face, and I actually burst out laughing, then remember I’m on display, and I start coughing to cover the laughter.
Simon passes me his water glass, which is both incredibly endearing and also completely unnecessary since I have one in front of me as well. “Are you all right?”
I wonder how many times he’ll ask me that tonight. “That has to be the worst question anyone has ever asked me.”
He grins.
I crack up again.
I’m still half giggling when I finally answer him. “No, they were notawful. They were the best. And that’s not a rose-colored rearview mirror. Our house was the one all of our friends came over to hang out at. Dad would cook for everyone. Mom never yelled. They both laughed all the time, and they’d kiss and hug in front of us and gross us all out. I got in trouble once for punching a boy who snapped my bra strap, and Mom showed up in the principal’s office and read them the riot act for tryingto punish me for defending myself, then took me out for tea and told me how proud she was that I stood up for myself. Truly, truly the best.”
“Fascinating,” he murmurs.
“Wereyourparents awful?”
“Oh, goodness me, no. They were far worse than awful.”
He says it with that happy-go-lucky, no-worries-in-the-world expression on his face, but his voice—his voice doesn’t quite match it.
“Are they still alive?”
“Alas, if karma were real, I daresay your parents would still be here and mine would not.”
“Wow. They’re that bad?”
He lifts the bottle of Dom and tops himself off. “I’m afraid even four of these wouldn’t be enough to prompt that full story. Tell me about your brothers.”
“Their feet smell, they team up against me, and none of them ever make me dinner.”
“Just like my boys.”
“Well, you could’ve raised them better. Mine were already broken when I inherited them.”
He chuckles as a short young woman with a purple streak in her blond hair, wearing the black pants-and-white shirt uniform for JC Fig, appears at our table with a basket of bread. “Oh my gosh, I love you,” she whispers to Simon as she sets the bread down. “Okay. Okay. I’m going to be normal. Hi. Aileen I’m. I mean, I’m Aileen. I’ll be your server tonight.”
“Hello, Aileen,” Simon says. “Lovely to meet you.”
Her whole face flushes red as she shifts side to side on the balls of her feet. “Take your time looking at the menu. Not that you have a lot of options. The chef did a fixed menu for opening, and I just need to know which soup, which salad dressing, and which flavor of ice cream for dessert. It’s homemade right herein our kitchens. Oh, shi—shoot. Crap. Shoot. I’m supposed to tell you about the lobster mac. Our main dish tonight is Chef’s famous award-winning version of everyone’s favorite comfort dish. It features fresh-caught lane mobster—Maine lobster—and a creamy three-cheese fennel sauce over cavatappi noodles.”
I pinch my lips together and cast a glance at Simon, who hasn’t stopped smiling. “Sounds brilliant.” He reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a pair of reading glasses, and slides them on as he glances down at the menu. “Tell us about the soups.”
“You have the option of cheddar broccoli or lobster bisque.”
I pinch my lips harder, and not because Simon in glasses is weirdly even hotter.
It’s because I didn’t know about the menu.
I mean, I knew the regular menu was cheese-heavy, but I didn’t know there would be a tasting menuwithoutthe meatloaf Simon mentioned wanting to try.
Or, you know, any single option at all that isn’t swimming in butter and cheese.
He keeps smiling. “Marvelous. Could you give us a few moments?”
“Oh, absolutely. Of course. Take your time. Would you like another bottle of wine? Or tea or something else? We can get you anything you’d like. Oh, and here’s the fondue.”
“Fondue?” My voice comes out strangled.
“Only the best here at JC Fig. Why stop at butter when you can dip your bread in cheese fondue? Be very careful—it’s hot.”
