Shane lowers the menu. “We’ll take a bottle of the Krug.” He pauses, looking at me for confirmation.
I blink. “Uh…”
“It’s champagne.”
I bite back a smirk. I know it’s champagne, for God’s sake. But I was thinking I might get a vodka cocktail, or something. Not to mention, isn’t Krug hugely expensive? Surely he’ll be expecting me to put out after he buys a—I grab the drink menu and glance over the list—three hundred dollar bottle of champagne. Holy shit. I can’t drink that. My body won’t know what it is and will probably reject it.
I glance back at Shane’s expectant face. He seems to think I’m worth a three hundred dollar bottle of champagne. And I never go on fancy dates like this. In all our years of marriage, Mark never once took me somewhere this nice. Maybe it’s time I raise the bar for myself.
I grin, setting the menu down. “Perfect.”
The waiter nods and turns back to the kitchen.
“So the food here is French-inspired,” Shane says, clasping his hands on the table. “Have you ever been to France?”
“No, but it’s on my list.” I give a light laugh, as if I’ve been meaning to book a trip to France for ages now, and gosh darn it, if it weren’t for the tiny issues of my failing business and difficult ex-husband I would have popped over already.
“You should go. It’s beautiful.” He tilts his head as he gazes at me. “Like you.”
I feel an overwhelming urge to snort—which, thankfully, I manage to suppress. That might be the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard, but he can get away with it. He’s handsome, charming, andreallyknows how to choose a restaurant.
The waiter presents the Krug with a flourish, popping the cork and pouring us each a small glass, then hovering by the table. It’s then that I realize we are supposed to taste it and give our approval. As if I’d ever send back a three hundred dollar bottle of champagne.
Raising the glass to my lips, I take a sip of the cool liquid and let the bubbles fizz on my tongue. I wait to be blown-away by how extravagant and decadent it tastes but—honestly?—I couldn’t tell this from a bottle of the Costco sparkling cider my mom likes to drink. But when I look up the waiter is watching me with anticipation, so I give him a meaningful nod.
I glance at Shane and he does the same. “That’s great, thanks.”
Phew. Got that right.
“Fantastic,” the waiter says, straightening up. “Your first course will be out shortly.” He pivots on his heel and heads off.
“Our first course?” I look at Shane, puzzled. “But we haven’t ordered.”
He winks. “I took care of it. The menu is a prix fixe with only a few options, and I chose the best. You’ll love it.” He says the words “prix fixe” with a flawless French accent and I would be impressed, if it weren’t for the words that followed. Because a guy choosing my food for me? That pisses me off, big time.
I begin to protest, but his lips tip into a warm, sexy smile and I clamp my mouth shut. He’s trying to be thoughtful, isn’t he? Besides, it’s kind of nice having someone else take care of things for a change. And heispaying for everything, so I shouldn’t complain.
“That sounds great.” I brush my hand against his arm as I reach for my glass of champagne. “Thank you.”
The waiter arrives with two plates, setting them down between our cutlery, without saying anything more than, “Enjoy.” On the plate is a cast-iron dish with small holes in it, like a small muffin tray, each hole filled with something green.
When I glance over at Shane, he’s tucking into his green stuff eagerly, so I pick up my fork. I’ve never been into eating unusual food, and I don’t know what this is. Some kind of spinach? That’s probably okay; spinach I can handle.
I take a deep breath and raise a fork-load of it to my mouth. The taste is… interesting. But it’s definitely not spinach; the texture is wrong. It’s kind of slimy, a little chewy, a bit salty. I’m sure it’s nothing strange, but the fact that I don’t know what I’m eating is making me a little uneasy.
I give Shane an enthusiastic smile, making sure to keep my lips together because my teeth are undoubtedly green. A swig of the champagne washes it down nicely. “Um, are you enjoying your…” I leave the sentence hanging, hoping he’ll fill the rest in. I don’t want to ask outright, in case he thinks I’m some kind of destitute loser who doesn’t eat at French-inspired restaurants very often.
“Scotch snails?” Shane supplies. “Yes. So good.”
I freeze in horror, feeling the smile vanish from my face. Snails? He ordered mesnails? On our first date? Is this some kind of joke?
Whoops. I’m not doing a very good job of keeping it together, because he pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, a little frown gathering between his brows. “Have you not had scotch sea snails before?”
Seasnails?! Holy fuck. They’re not even your garden-variety snails—they’re from the freaking sea. Who wants to eat these?Why?
I contort my face into a joyless smile—it’s the best I can manage under the circumstances—and stab my fork into another snail, lifting it to my mouth.
I know I have a choice here; he’s hardly forcing them down my throat. But I’m going to take the high road andnotruin this date, in this spectacular restaurant with this gorgeous man, simply because I’m feeling squeamish over what is, apparently, a normal thing for someone to eat.
