“What? It was a risk. They could have been full.”
I’m laughing so hard I have to cover my mouth. “You’re hopeless.”
“I prefer ‘cautious.’“
“Tomato, tomahto.”
Dolly returns, and we order—boring turkey for him, adventurous chicken fried steak for me, and pie because apparently that’s non-negotiable.
“Tell me something,” I say once she’s gone. “Something that’s changed in ten years. Something I wouldn’t guess.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Surprise me.”
He considers, turning his fork over in his fingers. “I learned to cook. I can make risotto now.”
“Risotto? That’s very fancy.”
“Theo taught me. He stress-cooks, so there’s always someone willing to give lessons. I’m also decent at pasta and I make a mean grilled cheese.”
“A mean grilled cheese. The culinary heights.”
“Don’t mock the grilled cheese. It’s an art form.”
“What about you?” he asks, setting down the fork. “Something I wouldn’t guess.”
“I adopted a cat. Mr. Darcy.”
“Of course you named your cat Mr. Darcy.”
“I’m a romance author. It was legally required.”
“What’s he like?”
“Fat. Judgmental. Screams at three in the morning for no reason. Knocks things off tables just to watch them fall.” I shrug, stealing a pickle from his plate. “We’re very similar, actually.”
Lucas chokes on his water. “You knock things off tables?”
“When the writing’s going badly? I’ve been known to throw a pillow or two.”
“That’s concerning.”
“That’s artistic temperament.”
“That’s what people with anger issues say.”
“I don’t have anger issues. I havepassion.”
The food arrives—his boring sandwich, my delicious chicken fried steak—and we trade stories while we eat. His worst patient, a man convinced he had a tropical disease. Actual diagnosis, a tanning bed burn after falling asleep for six hours.
“He left his alarm in the car,” Lucas says. “Looked like a lobster. A very panicked lobster who was convinced he was dying of dengue fever.”
“Where did he even get dengue fever as a diagnosis?”
“WebMD.”
“Of course.”
