“The Asian pot roast,” Finn said. “I’ve never seen pot roast done Asian-style. I have to try it.”
“Excellent choices,” the server said, collecting our menus. “I’ll get those in for you.”
She left, and I reached for the bread basket again.
“We’re going to need more of this. Screw carbs and calories,” Finn said.
We talked while we munched the bread—about nothing and everything: his family back in Dublin, my mom in Clearwater, his sisters who thought Florida was insane, my complete lack of siblings, us growing up in different countries, different contexts, but somehow ending up here in the same city, at thesame table.
It was strange. On my prior first dates with other guys, there was usually a lull, a point when conversation waned and one or the other might need to prompt a new conversation or topic. It wasn’t like that with Finn. We chatted as though we’d always known each other, the words flowing freely and never ending.
“Do you miss Ireland?” I asked.
“Sometimes. Mostly I miss my family, but Tampa’s home now, weird as that feels to say.” He smiled. “What about you? Do you like it here?”
“Yeah, I do. I grew up in Clearwater, so it’s all I’ve really known. But I like Tampa, too. The city’s got energy. It . . . I don’t know . . . it feels like it has a lot of possibility, if that makes any sense.” I paused. “Although I should probably see more of it than just my office and your bar.”
“We can work on that . . . you know . . . if you want.”
The way he said it—we—made something warm settle in my chest.
Our food arrived, and the server set down our plates with a flourish.
My chicken looked golden and crispy, plated beautifully with roasted vegetables and lemon caper sauce drizzled artfully across the plate. But Finn’spot roast looked incredible.
The meat was fall-apart tender, sitting in this rich, dark sauce with Asian flavors. I could actually smell the ginger and soy and something sweet from across the table.
Finn cut into his meat, took a bite, and made a sound that was borderline pornographic.
“Okay, that’s not fair,” I said.
“Oh my God, Chase.” He took another bite. “This is . . . I don’t even have words. This may be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Better than Rod’s food?”
“Don’t tell Rod, but yes.” He looked at my plate. “How’s your chicken?”
It was good—perfectly cooked and moist.
“It’s good,” I said.
“Just good?” Finn grinned. “You want some of this, don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Here. At least try it.” He cut a piece and held his fork out across the table.
I leaned forward and took the bite.
Holy shit.
It was incredible. The meat melted in my mouth, and the sauce was complex, with layers of flavor, sweet and savory and perfectly balanced.
“Okay,” I said. “That’s really,reallyunfair.”
Finn was laughing. “Want to share it?”
“I don’t want to take your food—”
