I take a breath and head back out.
Twenty minutes. I can survive twenty minutes.
My date is still chewing when I sit down. Mouth open. No shame.
"Everything okay?" he asks, not really caring.
"Perfect," I lie.
He launches into a story about his restaurant, how he's "revolutionizing British cuisine," and I nod, smile, let my mind drift.
Back to the night I met Drogo.
I was crying on a bench in Hyde Park. He was drunk—like a fairy stumbled in from nowhere—sat down on the same bench. And from the shock of seeing him, I just stopped crying. I stared at him. Tall, fit but not massive. Shoulders that filled doorways, hands that could sketch cathedrals or snap a neck with the same steady grip. Blue eyes, dark hair. Handsome then, but magnetic now. Charming. A sin.
"...and that's when I realized, the secret to a perfect béarnaise is—"
I blink. My date is still talking.
"Fascinating," I murmur.
I think I stopped crying because Drogo was that beautiful—even drunk and stupid.
But he didn't notice me for a solid ten minutes. Then he turned, looked at me, smiled, said "wow," and promptly passed out.
"Are you even listening?" My date's voice cuts through.
"Of course. Béarnaise. Revolutionary."
He narrows his eyes but keeps talking.
I couldn't leave Drogo that night. I couldn't lift him. And I didn't have a phone—because at that moment, I was broke and hopeless. Hence, the crying in public spaces.
I stayed by his side for five hours.
My date signals the waiter for more wine. I check my phone. Ten minutes since Drogo said he'd come.
Ten more to go.
When Drogo finally woke up, I was a little angry. It was cold, and I didn't have a proper jacket, so I was shaking.
"You prick." That was the first thing I ever told him before I stood up to leave the dark, scary Hyde Park.
I'll never forget it. He grabbed my hand, stopped me, and gave me his jacket. Then he turned and said, "I'm buying coffee."
"...so I told the supplier, if you can't source organic, don't bother—"
My date is relentless.
After that coffee, we never spent a day apart. He relaxed me and stressed me at the same time. His beauty stressed me. His strength. You could see how confident he was—like he could set the world on fire if he wanted to.
"The thing is, you have to put it in the pan skin down first."
Oh my God. He's holding a piece of fish in my face again.
"The taste comes from below..."
I force a smile. Fifteen minutes now.
