Twenty-four hours ago, just walking beside Kolya in public overstimulated me. Now, on my date with Greg Hammond at a romantic Italian restaurant, I’m overindulging in wine just to stay present.
With hardwood floors worn from decades of high-volume traffic and white tablecloths always starched to perfection, Amalfi’s is one of my favorite local spots.
The scent of fresh rosemary and garlic suffuses the dimly lit dining space, luring my nose toward the kitchen. But even the promise of incredible pasta can’t salvage the evening.
Physically speaking, Greg’s attractive enough. He’s fit and has a pleasing face. And maybe he could elevate to handsome if he ever properly looked at me. Once our server dropped off bread, he fixed his blue eyes on his plate and started rambling about one self-interest after the other, oblivious to my increasingly desperate attempts to change the subject.
The lawnmower discussion is at least mildly more fascinating than his verbal treatise about his 401(k), or how he “rebalanced his international equities” because “the risk exposure was getting a little high.”
I drum my fingers against the stem of my wine glass, desperate to shift the conversation toward something—anything—that isn’t powered by lithium-ion batteries or financial spreadsheets.
“…impressive blade quality and superior construction…” The words are lost between the clink of silverware and low hum of other, presumably more interesting conversations swirling through the dining area.
“I’ve got a whole collection of vintage lawn equipment manuals, by the way. There’s this 1978 Briggs & Stratton—” His fork scrapes the plate and moves to his mouth, a piece of one of the mozzarella sticks he ordered before I arrived dangling from the tines. Yes, he’s eating a mozzarella stick with a fork. I wonder what that says about his skills under the sheets.
Nothing good.
I seize the opportunity as he chews. “I’ve always loved vintage things too. I recently got this gorgeous antique globe bar. Oh, and there’s this record store downtown that has?—”
“Record store?” Greg’s eyebrows scrunch together like two caterpillars trying to mate. “Albums? Huh. Do people still do that sort of thing?”
“Apparently so.” I swirl the merlot in my glass, watching the dark red legs cling to the side. At least the wine is good. Probably still not worth the emotional toll of this date.
My gaze wanders to the posters on the walls. The Amalfi Coast. Italian villages. Places I’ve never visited and likely never will.
Greg hunches forward almost conspiratorially. “I’m in three leagues this season.”
I straighten. A team sport? I can work with that. “Oh, a league. How fun. What kind? Softball?”
He snorts. “Fantasy football.” He has the audacity to appear offended by my ignorance while also leaving a smear of marinara on his chin.
“Oh.” The excitement deflates from my chest. I’m vaguely familiar with those. They involve fabricated teams and points and…do people throw dice? Or trade cards? For some reason, my mind goes straight to D&D. At least in that role-playing game, there are dragons. Knights. Warriors. Adventure, puzzles, and dark mages to vanquish. Still, I attempt to rally. “Fascinating. Which teams do you like?”
He scoffs. “It’s not about teams, Chloe. It’s about the players and matchups and analytics. I drafted a strong core this year. My tight end is a beast in the red zone.”
All the right words to sound interesting, yet coming from him, they’re so boring.
The server materializes like an angel of salvation. “Are we ready to order?”
“Yes, thank you.” I grant him a disproportionately relieved smile. “I’ll have?—”
“Actually,” Greg holds up a hand, “we need a few more minutes.”
The server spares me a sympathetic glance before disappearing back into the restaurant’s controlled chaos. I want to grab his sleeve and beg him to save me. Maybe he could spill sauce or wine on Greg’s pristine button-down shirt and cut this disaster short.
Instead, I inhale a long, slow breath and arrange my lips into what I hope passes for a smile. One brittle enough to crack my face.
I should’ve known better than to get my hopes up. Hope leads you into situations where you’re stuck sitting across thetable from men who monologue about fantasy football with the same kind of vest brought to world peace negotiations. Hope teases you with the lie that the next date will be better than the last. Hope is overrated.
At the moment, the only thing I hope for is another glass of wine.
Greg launches into a detailed discussion of each player and their stats, including the ones he didn’t pick and why.
I’m stifling another yawn and resisting the urge to adjust my uncomfortable strapless bra when a prickle runs up the back of my neck. I scan the restaurant.
Past the clinking glasses and hushed conversations, I spy a figure standing near the archway that leads to the reception area.
Tall, solid, and entirely too still.
