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This chapter begs you to heed the trigger warnings.
Fox
I might be on a dinner date with Poem Devoe. Potentially. Possibly. Maybe? How does one know if they’re on a date or not?
“Red or white?” I ask my date (question mark), plopping two contrasting bottles of wine in front of her on my kitchen counter as food sizzles on the stove behind me.
I stare at the bottles. Which one would a person on a date drink? White wine gives girlie pop brunch time. Or fish, I guess, but mostly girlie time brunch. Red wine, though… dark, candlelit restaurants and cozy picnics on the beach, right?
“You pick,” I order. If she picks white, then this isn’t our first date. If she picks red, then it is. Science. Irrefutable science, even.
Her nose scrunches. “Do you have any rosé up here?”
“Rosé?” I echo, frowning.
“Yeah,” she says. “I like rosé. It reminds me of the singer from BLACKPINK. Do you have any up here? Or should I go down and grab some? I can put money in the till for it.”
“I don’t want your money,” I grumble. Her giving me money would push us closer to not-a-date than definitely-a-date, and I am not encouraging that tilt.
“It would beyourmoney,” she retorts. “I don’t have wine money. I may not have to pay for construction costs, but I still have cosmetic repairs to make and furniture legs to replace.”
Oh. “Well. That’s fine then. I can go down and grab some. Do you have a preference?”
She rattles off a wine that I didn’t know we stocked.
My gaze narrows. “Did you sneak into the ordering system and add that to the stock request before I sent it out?”
She blinks, the picture of innocent never-did-anything-wrong-in-her-life virtuosity.
I forget entirely what I was upset about or why I would dare to be upset with her in the first place.
“I’ll be right back,” I grit, clenching my jaw so that it does not go slack in the face of her utter adorableness. “Don’t touch anything.”
She shrugs agreeably. “Won’t catch me in there poking around at things. I bake. Cakes, cookies, et cetera. I do not cook.” Her nose wrinkles. “If it has garlic, I’m out, and I saw you mince about four heads of garlic earlier, so I’mwayout.”
It was half of a head of garlic, but I don’t correct her. Whatever keeps her far away from the potential to burn herself in my absence, something I’ve seen her manage several times trying to filch a fry from the fryer basket in the bar’s kitchen mid-shift.
I put away the date and not-date wines, then round the counter, kiss her temple, and head down to retrieve the maybe-a-date-? wine instead.
When I return to Poem, she’s standing over the stove prodding at the garlic potatoes as they sizzle. Prodding. With her bare finger.
“Poem,” I hiss, setting the thick bottle on the counter with a clatter. “Get away from that. It’s going to hurt you.”
“You’re making potatoes!” she exclaims with a level of excitement most would save for winning the superbowl or defeating cancer.
“You like potatoes,” I grumble, herding her back to her side of the counter. “I’m also making marry-me chicken.”
Excitement narrowing into suspicion, she eyes me. “You’re not going to bust out a ring, are you? It’s only been a few days since you started wooing me. You can’t jump from wooing to engaged via chicken and potatoes in less than a week, Fox. It’s uncouth. Not to mention blatant manipulation. You know I’ll do anything for potatoes.”
“Is that all it would take?” I ask. “Well-cooked potatoes?”
“There’s the chicken, too,” she reminds me. “Very dastardly, what you’re doing here. Very red flags.”
“Making the woman I love a delicious and nutritious dinner for date night in is a dastardly red flag?” I ask, avoiding eye contact as I fish for confirmation of what this evening is or isn’t. “I thought women loved a man who could and would cook.”
“Is it really dinner if we’re having it at 4:00 AM?” she wonders aloud. “Surely there’s a cap on that somewhere. There are people eating breakfast right now. Can we be having dinner while others eat eggs and toast?”
