“What’s good here?”
My gaze snaps to his. “Hmm?” I ask because I didn’t catch what he said.
“To eat. What’s good here to eat.”
“Oh, right. Um… I’ve only had the shepherd's pie because that’s Penny's favorite.”
“What does Penny’s favorite have to do with you?” His brows furrow in confusion.f
I start to pull apart the paper on the straw in front of me. “She gives me her leftovers sometimes. Otherwise, I don’t eat out,” I say matter-of-factly.
When I finally look at him, I can see his mind trying to work through my statement. “I don’t really eat out either. I’m more of a stay-at-home and cook kind of guy.”
I search his eyes for the lie but come up empty. I think his version of staying at home and eating is very different from mine though, so I just hum and nod.
He continues though. “My mom is an amazing cook and taught me all the family recipes from both her side and my dad’s. None of it tastes as good as when she makes it, but I try.” He smiles a genuine smile and shrugs.
I feel like this is the first piece of information he’s given me about himself other than his name and occupation.
The waitress reaches our table and interrupts with a strong Irish accent, “What can I get you two?”
I forgot to even look at the menu. Too nervous. But Lucas proceeds. “I’ll have the fish and chips and a Guinness, please.”
That sounds delicious. Even the beer. But since I know it’s out of my price range, and I fully plan on paying Lucas back, I tell her, “A side salad, please. With ranch.” I avoid eye contact at all costs with both the waitress and Lucas.
I’m so uncomfortable right now. I’m not sure what I’m even doing here.
“No, she’ll have what I’m having. Including the beer, please,” Lucas rebuttals.
That grabs my attention. He’s not looking at me though. He’s looking at the waitress who’s got a megawatt smile on her face and nodding while she writes in her notepad.
“No, that’s–”
“A man who makes sure his woman is fed. I like it. I’ll be right back with your beers.” She winks at me and saunters off.
The smug grin on Lucas’s face says that he’s proud of himself. And now I’m just frustrated.
“Lucas,” I whisper yell at him. “I can’t afford this.”
He leans forward with his elbows on the table and his hands steepled under his chin, his expression morphing from smug to serious in an instant. “I told you this was a date and I’m paying. I never go Dutch. And you aren’t eating just a side salad.”
My eyes widen as my heart rate picks up. “You never said this was a date.”
He leans back. “Semantics.”
I huff and cross my arms. “What if I hate fish and beer?”
“You don’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Your eyes and right hand were lingering on the fish and chips on the menu, and I had to take a guess about the beer. But you’re close to college-aged, and everyone in college drinks beer. Well, shitty beer. And Guinness is actually good and not as heavy as everyone claims it to be. But if you don’t like it, I’ll drink it and get you something else.”
What. The. Fuck.
I think my brain is short circuiting.
“Am I right?” he asks.
