He steps closer, taking my hands into his. “It is honest.”
I look up at him. Part of me wants to kiss him, another part wants to slap him. Before I have a chance to do either of those things, however, my body pipes up. Specifically, my stomach, which chooses that moment to rumble loudly.
He chuckles. “There’s still the matter of our dinner.”
“Yeah. I guess threatening service staff works up an appetite.”
Roman glances over his shoulder, then back to me. “There’s a lovely French bistro just?—”
I cut him off. “No. New plan.” He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not in the mood for a place where I have to worry about which one of nine different forks I’m supposed to use.”
Roman laughs, a real laugh, and considers my words. “Very well then. Where would you like to go?”
A playful grin forms on my lips. “I know just the place.”
The name on the window reads, “Mama Lina’s Hot Chicken.”
It’s loud. It’s warm. It smells like frying oil and pepper and something tangy that makes my stomach growl. The lights are fluorescent. The tables and chairs are mismatched. There’s a handwritten sign over the counter that says: BE PATIENT. GOOD FOOD TAKES TIME.
Roman steps inside behind me, his eyes widening just a bit and his eyebrows arching in a way that makes it clear this is not his typical place to eat.
“I’m going to guess you’ve never been here.”
His gaze sweeps over the scene, over the families, the construction workers getting off late shifts. No one recognizes him here like they did at the fancy restaurant.
“No. I have not.”
“It’s the best hot chicken in the city. I’m serious, people go crazy over this place.”
“Hot chicken?”
“Yeah. Like regular fried chicken, except hot.”
His mouth twitches a bit. “Should I be concerned?”
“Not even a little. Unless you’re a wimp.”
I playfully elbow him and he chuckles. When he starts to step up to the counter, I quickly shoot out my arm and bar him from moving forward.
“Not a chance.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m not about to let a hot chicken amateur order our meal. Trust me.”
The faintest whisper of a smirk forms on his lips. “As you wish.”
I step forward, the stocky woman behind the counter with a no-nonsense expression approaching, wiping her hands on a dark blue apron.
“You ready, sweetheart?” she asks.
“Sure am.” I take a deep breath. “For me. Two-piece, hot. No, make it a four-piece—extra crispy. Mac and cheese. Collard greens. Cornbread.”
She grins. “Good choice. And for Mr. Tall, dark, and handsome?”
“Let’s do a three-piece—it’s his first hot-chicken rodeo. Thighs and drumsticks. Fries, biscuit with honey.” I glance over my shoulder. “That work?”
“That works.”
