“Then I won’t kill your roommate.”
His velvety soft words take a few moments to process between my ears. My unfriendly smile fades, as my fingers go cold and still on the table.
“What did you just say?” I whisper, heart pounding in my ears. “Did you?—”
“I don’t think I need to repeat myself.” He sits up fully, releasing my leg and picking up his menu. “Have you been here before?”
Glancing around, I look at the atmosphere, from the early 2000s stained glass lamps over the table to the wait staff wearing more formal uniforms than they really need to in a place like this. The menu is a bit dated, but nice, and I run my fingers over it again as I shake my head. “Nah. Have you?”
“Nope.”He enunciates the word and flips through the thick laminated sheets. “But it looks like a pretty good place for a date.”
“This isn’t a date.”
“This is absolutely a date.”
“Oh, yeah?” I find myself more talkative around him, though I’m not sure how I feel about that. Normally, I prefer to watch and wait and learn about people before I give them what I think will get them out of my hair the quickest. Or, for people like my boss or Esme, give them what will give them a better opinion of me for the long run.
Larkin is…strange. He makes me feel strange, and I huff out a soft sigh. “How do you figure this is a date?”
“Because I told you it was.” He flashes me a bright smile and sets his menu down. “I’m ready when you are.”
“I didn’t agree to go on one with you.”
“Yet here you are.”
I scoff at that and roll my eyes up at Larkin with a quick shake of my head. “You didn’t give me a fucking choice. I’m only herebecause youphysicallydragged me away from what I was doing and took my box cutter.”
His smile widens, and I hate the gleam that makes his dark eyes dance. “So? There’s nothing in the rulebook that says a date has to be fully agreed on by both parties, silly girl. I said it’s a date, so it’s a date.”
Glaring down at the menu, I scoff. “Don’t call me that. I’m not a silly girl. I’m not your babe, I’m not?—”
“A fierce little monster with less sense than a rabbit in a trap?” He rests his head on his hands, elbows on the table, as he gazes at me from under his thick lashes. God, he shouldn’t look so perfect. My hands come up to fiddle with my jacket, and with a jolt, I realize it’s his. That takes only a moment to fix, and I launch it across the table to him. To my satisfaction, a sleeve slaps him in the face, causing Larkin to close his eyes and sigh. Carefully, he extricates his jacket from the table without knocking off any silverware, and drops it on the booth beside him.
“Careful, silly girl,” he hums with his eyes darkening in warning. “I’m a bit of an exhibitionist, and if I have to teach you a lesson here?—”
“Hi! Welcome to Cider House Grill!” I’ve never been saved by a naïve, over-eager waitress, and her sudden appearance makes me jump. Larkin only glances up at her, though I see his slight frown of disappointment at her arrival.
“Hello,” he greets with a half-sigh. He flashes her a smile that’s definitely not real and looks at me. “Are you ready to order, babe? Or do you need another minute?”
“Oh, that’s okay!” the young girl, who’s maybe eighteen, shoves the pad of paper into her apron like it might be offending us. “Can I just get your drink order?”
“Absolutely. Could I get iced tea? I don’t need any sugar,” Larkin tells her smoothly. “And…” He glances down at the smaller drink menu. “A Black Russian.”
The girl nods, then proceeds to look at me, but I just gaze at her nonplussed, as if I’ve never in my life ordered a fucking drink. “Same,” I say finally, my mind blank. “Not the Black Russian, though. Just the tea.” I definitely don’t need any alcohol in my system tonight, but Larkin gives a little snicker at my reluctance.
“I’ll be right back with those drinks and some bread!” The way-too-chipper girl nearly bounces away, like she’s floating on rainbows and good intentions.
“God, that’s certainly a personality type,” I grumble, my own head going to my hands. I glare down at the menu, then up at Larkin. “And I’m not hungry.”
“You’re hungry,” he disagrees, carefully setting down the drink menu. “Figure out what you want, or I’ll order for you. Would you like that? Because I’m not sure I know you well enough yet to accurately order your food.”
“You don’t.”
“Then be a big girl and look at the damn menu.” His words, full of goading amusement, really fuel my irritation. But I open the menu again, the textured vinyl slapping loudly on the dark green table. Shaking my head, I stare down at it, my eyes barely able to read the items listed.
“I know what I want,” I say before I spot a club sandwich. It’s simple enough and easy enough that I don’t have to be difficult, though I will admit to myself that I’d love to try their bourbon filet.
Not tonight, though.
