My blush burns brighter.
This is going well. He’s hot, and he’s into me. It’s what I wanted…kind of.
What should be butterflies in my stomach are more like pangs of anxiety and the sloshing of champagne with nothing to soak it up.
“So, uh, anyway, what about you? What do you do?”
Oscar raises a brow at me. “Parker didn’t tell you?”
“No? Should he have?” If this man tells me he’s some mafia leader or secret billionaire, then I’ll really know I’m stuck in a romance.
“No, I just get a lot of people who say yes to a date with me because they know I have money.”
“I’m sure a lot also want to go out with you because of your looks.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them, because the way he grins at me, like I’m practically getting down on the floor and presenting to him, makes me shiver.
I clear my throat. “But uh, you still haven’t told me what you do.”
Oscar pauses, leaning forward like he’s going to reveal something dramatic. With a cocky smile, he says, “Finance.”
It takes all my composure not to laugh at how impressive he seems to think that is.
“Oh. Nice.” I sit back and sip my champagne again.
He sits back too, his smile growing smug. “Not as impressive as making candles, but it pays the bills.”
You know what? I think I hate this guy.
The food arrives, which is a relief because I really didn’t want to deal with this alpha demeaning my work and acting like he’s god’s gift to omegas.
I can’t hide my grimace when the waiter sets a plate in front of me, but Oscar either doesn’t notice or care. The waiter refills my champagne before I can tell him I don’t want any more.My stomach already is unhappy and the smell of seafood isn’t helping.
“Enjoy,” the server says before heading off again, and I mutter my thanks, even though I’m not thankful at all.
Why the hell did I let Oscar order for me? He’d insisted we get oysters, telling me I’d love them. Even after I said I’m not a big fan of any kind of seafood.
Oscar watches me expectantly. “Go on, try it.”
I poke at the disgusting substance in one of the shells with the tiny fork, and give him an apologetic half-smile. “I’m not sure…”
“Don’t be nervous. I’ll help you.” He winks and reaches over and takes the fork from my hand without asking, uses it to separate the…meat? Body? Ugh, this is so gross.
When I do nothing, eyes wide with panic, he chuckles and picks it up, leaning forward and bringing the shell to my lips.
I fight back a gag at the briny smell, and against all my better judgment, I open my lips to appease him, letting him tip the contents into my mouth.
Ohgod. It’s a fight to swallow the slimy, mucusy, horrid thing down.
Oscar sits back. “So good, right?”
I try to reply, but my stomach roils. I push myself up from the table. “Sorry, I need to…”
Shit, I can’t open my mouth again or I’m going to be sick right here at the table.
I rush off before he can try to stop me, almost crashing into a server pushing a cart of desserts, praying I make it to the bathroom in time.
I do. Barely.
Wiping at my mouth, I groan as I kneel in front of the blessedly pristine toilet and hope that’s all of it. When my stomach feels settled enough, I get up on wobbly legs and flush.I stare at the stall door, unable to get myself to go out. Unable to go back to my date.
