Ramin exhaled slowly. Was that it?
It was. Relief washed over him like cool mist.
“Yeah. He studied for years.”
“Wow.” Noah took another taste of his wine. “So—” he began, but the arrival of their risottos interrupted him.
Ramin’s looked perfect: a golden circle of rice, with a dollop of rich brown brodo in the center. It smelled like heaven.
Noah’s eyes lit up as he beheld his own dinner; he even leaned in to smell it better.
Ramin waited to pick up his spoon—was Noah the kind of guy who’d want to say grace?—but Noah grabbed his own spoon and dug in. As soon as he closed his mouth, he let out a moan that Ramin felt in his taint.
“Oh my goodness. It’s so good. Try yours.”
Noah was right: It was creamy, savory, the lightness of the saffron playing counterpoint to the richness of the brodo. The fruit and acidity of the wine cut through everything.
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
They ate in silence for a moment, Noah digging in with gusto, Ramin taking it a bit slower. He’d had a long therapy appointment after the breakup (and the bout of intense negative self-talk it had brought on). He was mostly okay when it came to his relationship with food. His therapist had reminded him he was literally going to one of the food capitals of the world.
His body was a good body. A strong body. A healthy body. He was allowed to enjoy good food. He wasexcitedto enjoy good food.
Even if it did kind of suck, sitting across from Noah, trying not to notice the way his muscles filled out his polo shirt.
Fuck body dysmorphia.
Noah caught his eyes and gave him another smile. Noah was all smiles. And Ramin couldn’t help it. He smiled back.
He felt like a kid again, eating lunch with a friend. Except instead of terrible square pizza, it was heavenly risotto and the greatest wine Ramin had ever tasted in his life.
Noah reached for his wineglass right as Ramin did, and their hands brushed briefly. Despite his hairy forearms, Noah didn’t have very much knuckle hair, unlike Ramin, who had a few coarse strands on every finger. Noah’s hand was warm, especially compared to the night air, and softer than Ramin expected, and—
Ramin snapped his hand back. He was absofuckinglutely not holding hands with Noah Bartlett. Just because he wasn’t a secret homophobe didn’t mean he wasn’t straight. And even if hewasn’tstraight, they were two old friends having a reunion dinner. He wasn’t on a date.
Noah Bartlett was completely out of his league. He might as well have been playing a different sport.
Noah quirked his head and pursed his lips, but Ramin just shrugged. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
God, Noah was evenniceabout it.
This was going to be a long fucking night.
But then Noah smiled at him again, and Ramin wished the night would never end.
Ramin cleaned his plate. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, but it was the first real meal he’d had after his flights. Speaking of flights, Ramin had forgotten how easily he got buzzed after being on a plane, but he didn’t stop their server when she topped up his and Noah’s glasses with the last of the bottle.
“I hope you enjoyed,” she said. “This is a very special wine.”
Noah smirked. Four different servers—none of themtheirserver—had swung by their table to say the same thing as they ate.
“We did,” Ramin assured her.
As she cleared away their plates, Noah leaned back and ran a hand through his hair.
