“Still want to try it?” Phoenix asks, amusement in his voice.
“Italian-Asian Fusion?” I shrug. “Let’s give it a go.”
He chuckles. “That’s the spirit. But I’m just warning you, do not, under any circumstances, try the lo mein noodles with marinara.”
Once we’re seated at a small table in the corner, we hit the buffet. Of course I put some of the lo mein with marinara on my plate, and Phoenix shakes his head.
“You were that kid that always took on any dare someone issued, weren’t you?”
“Only if it was a double-dog dare,” I say, adding a few more things to my plate. “My brain simply wouldn’t have allowed me to decline the double-dog. And telling me not to do something is essentially the same thing.”
“Same,” he replies as we survey the odd selection of food. “I could usually talk Helix into doing pretty much anything with me, but Remi would analyze every dare like he was being asked to sever a limb.”
We sit, and I take a bite of the lo mein. It’s foul, the texture of thenoodles all wrong for the sauce. I grimace and swallow a big drink of water as Phoenix smirks. “Told ya.”
“I know, but I had to try it. Which is your favorite?”
He pokes at a lasagna-looking thing on my plate. “This is actually great. It’s garlic chicken lasagna.”
I take a bite and hum with approval. “Okay, I like this.” After another mouthful, I ask, “What made you start ballroom dancing?”
Phoenix’s lips twist wryly. “It’s kind of a dumb story. It started because my mom kept getting on me about doing something for myself.” He stirs some rice around on his plate. “For the first couple years of Reece’s life, I didn’t do anything except work and go home, and my mother thought I needed more balance in my life.”
“That makes sense,” I say.
“So one night, I was watching this movie; I don’t even remember what it was, but there was a wedding at the end. The bride and her father were dancing together and…” He dips his chin to look down at his plate for a few seconds before lifting his eyes and looking at me through the fringe of his dark lashes. The vulnerability was practically oozing out of him. “I thought I’d like to dance like that with my daughter one day at her wedding.”
Oh. My. Heart.This man is so beautiful, inside and out.
“I don’t think that’s a dumb story at all, Phoenix.” I reach across the table and rest my hand on his. “I think that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”
One dimple peeks out when his mouth lifts on one side. “Of course, she won’t be getting married for another forty or so years, but I figured it would take me that long to learn to dance.”
I laugh lightly, and Phoenix turns his hand over to wrap his fingers between mine. “I think you’re a good dancer, Mr. Hale. You’ll definitely be ready for Reece’s wedding in forty years.”
“You did really well tonight,” he tells me. “Much better than my first time. You have great rhythm in your hips.”
“So do you,” I say, my voice slightly husky, and I’m pretty sure neither of us are talking about dancing anymore.
“Hellooooo!” a voice chirps beside us, and we both yank our handsapart, blushing like we just got caught naked in church. “Would you like to try our potstickers? New recipe from the chef.”
“What’s in them?” Phoenix asks suspiciously.
The lovely Asian woman is wearing a silky kimono-type dress, but it’s decorated in green, white, and red Italian flags. They’re really going all in with the fusion thing here.
“Italian sausage,” the woman replies, setting two on each of our plates, along with two small dishes of sauce. “This is traditional potsticker sauce with a dash of Italian marinara.”
She stands there with her hands folded, presumably waiting on us to try the new offering. Phoenix’s eyes hitch with mine, and we do some kind of silent communication that consists ofwhy the hell not?We simultaneously pick up a sausage filled bundle with our chopsticks and dip it in the sauce before each taking a bite.
The texture of the filling is different from what I’m used to with potstickers, but the flavor is rich and savory, and the sauce is surprisingly good.
“I like it,” I tell her, and Phoenix agrees.
“Definitely tell your husband to add that to the rotation.”
The woman offers a smile and single nod of her head before turning to go back to the kitchen. “Her husband is the chef?” I ask.
Phoenix polishes off his dumpling before answering. “Yes, he’s this full-blood Italian man with the bushiest mustache I’ve ever seen.” He leans closer. “Apparently, they wanted to open a restaurant, but they argued on whether to do Asian or Italian cuisine. And this is what they came up with.”
