“I hate dating, to be honest.” His tone is light. Is he trying to make small talk?
“You wouldn’t know it,” I mumble. He gives me a confused look but I’m saved by the server bringing me another glass of the same wine I’d had at the bar. I didn’t order another but I’ll take it.
“How are you doing this evening, Mr. Belmont?” the server asks.
“I’m good,” he answers as the server puts down a drink in front of him too. He really must come here a lot. “Eyes on me, Clark.” The server looks away from me and back to Dash.
“Bring out a few appetizers while my girl here looks over the menu.” Did he call me his girl? I shake my head.
“No, I know what I want.” I looked over the menu before Dash got here. “I mean, bring the apps but I’m having the filet Oscar style with a loaded baked potato.” I close my menu and hand it to the server. “Cooked medium rare please.” I wonder if they can make a dessert to go. I saw a dessert cart wheel through the lobby when I walked in.
“You know what I’ll have,” Dash says and hands over his menu.
I don’t know why, but it bugs me that he brings all his dates to the same place. I don’t understand—if he hates dating so much, why do it? I’d ask him but I’m trying to be rude so I’m not doing small talk. I reach into my purse and pull out my phone to text the girls an update. I can feel his eyes on me the whole time as I fire off one text after another.
“Is something wrong?” he says, and I look up from my phone. Suddenly it starts going off like crazy in my hand.
“Checking some stuff.” His chiseled jaw flexes and I can see I’m getting to him. I look back at my phone and continue to text the group chat about what’s going on.
Cherry: He’s trying to get some.
Blair: Damn, he’s talking?!
Harlow: Yep! Totally trying to get laid.
Me: Wait. Did any of you sleep with him?
A bunch of nos come through with reminders of how they all ditched him.
“Are you sure everything is okay?” he asks again, staring at my phone. “Are you checking the dating app? Do you have another date after this one?” His nose flares.
“Depends on how this one goes,” I say dryly, then pick up my wine and take a long sip. “Are you picking up the tab? I saw creme brûlée on the dessert tray.”
By the way his eyes widen, I wonder if maybe I went too far.
Chapter Four
DASH
For the first time since I can remember, and maybe ever, a woman has knocked me speechless.
The way she keeps playing on her phone is not only annoying, but it’s making me jealous of a piece of technology. Why is she giving it her complete focus instead of me? What did I do wrong?
Flashes of me sitting in this very same restaurant with other women hit me like a jolt of electricity. Me on my phone ignoring them completely, and then me getting up and walking out without so much as a backwards glance. Jesus, could she potentially do this to me?
The second I saw her, something was different and now I’m beginning to second-guess every decision I make. Should I try and push for more conversation, or should I just let her talk? Do I tell them to bring the dessert cart around now, or does she want to wait? Doubt is something I’m not familiar with and I don’t fucking like it.
Every time I see her tuck her dark hair behind her ear, I ache to be the one to do it. The delicate movement of her fingers as she texts on her phone makes we wonder what that would feel like on my chest. The way she bites her bottom lip when she’s self-conscious is driving me crazy and if she doesn’t turn those big brown eyes on me in the next two seconds, I’m going to flip this table over.
My blood boils the longer she taps on her phone and sips her wine like I’m not even here. If this is the game she wants to play then she’s going to be upset, because I won’t take a gamble. Not when I’ve finally found her.
“Put your phone down,” I say, my voice low and laced with an order.
She looks up and raises an eyebrow at me. “Excuse me?”
I lean close and speak in a punctuated sentence so she doesn't miss it this time. “I said. Put. Your. Phone. Down.” Her mouth closes and she audibly swallows as she lowers her phone to the table. When I look up, the waiter is standing close by and I point to him. “You, we’re taking our food to go.”
I push away from the table and he runs off quickly; I assume it’s to do as I’ve told him.
