I tapped the menu. “Absolutely. And the sweet potato biscuits, but I’m definitely getting the blackened catfish. This has been my spot ever since Talia told me about this place.”
Ronan closed his menu with decisive confidence. “Then I’m in your hands, Dr. Price.”
Vincent returned, notebook poised. “Ready to order?”
“We’ll start with the collard green egg rolls and sweet potato biscuits, and I’ll have the blackened catfish,” I said, setting my menu aside.
“Make that two, with the spicy sauce, not mild. For both of us.” His eyes flicked to me, checking for confirmation.
I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. “Man remembered I like it hot.”
“I remember everything you like,” Ronan replied after Vincent left, his voice dropping to a lower register that seemed reserved for moments when it was just us.
“Everything?”
“Enough to know that you prefer bourbon over vodka, spicy to mild, and that you have a sweet tooth that won’t quit. That’s why I’m going to order the peach cobbler for dessert and watch you try not to steal more than your half.”
I laughed. “You think you know me so well?”
“I’m getting there. Every day, a little more.”
Our conversation flowed easily as we avoided any heavy topics. Instead, we argued about the best BBQ spots in Alabama.
“You can’t be serious right now; Dreamland is the only correct answer.” I protested when he claimed some spot in Montgomery had the best ribs in the state.
“Dreamland is for tourists, too commercial now. Lost its soul.”
I pressed a hand to my chest in mock outrage. “The disrespect! Next, you’ll be telling me you put sugar in your cornbread.”
“Never that. I’m not a complete heathen.” He held up his hands in surrender.
Our appetizers arrived, saving him from more BBQ debates. The egg rolls were just as I remembered—crispy on the outside, filled with seasoned collards, smoked turkey, and a bit of heat that made your lips tingle. I watched Ronan take his first bite, his eyes widening as the flavors hit him.
“Damn, that’s something else.”
I reached for a sweet potato biscuit. “Told you. Try these with the honey butter.”
Ronan did as instructed; his expression shifted to pure pleasure. Watching him enjoy food I’d recommended felt strangely intimate, like sharing a piece of myself beyond words or physical touch.
I dipped my biscuit in the honey butter. “What was your honest first impression of me? And don’t try to sweet-talk your way out of this. I want the truth.”
Ronan sipped his bourbon. “Honestly? I thought you were brilliant and terrifying.”
Laughter rippled through me at the thought. “Terrifying? Wait, you were the one with a gun, and I scared you?”
“More than any armed suspect ever did. You were ready to dismantle me with all those statistics. Had my whole department sweating.”
“Unfortunately, that was my goal, but what about in the holding cell?”
“When I saw the way you comforted that scared student, I knew I was in trouble.”
“Trouble, huh?”
“The best kind. What was your first impression of me?” Ronan asked.
“That you were a sellout for a badge and a title,” I admitted.
“Damn, but it’s a fair assessment based on what you knew.”
