“I don’t eat bread,” my date said, wrinkling her nose.
“You should try it,” I coaxed, trying to salvage the date for my brother’s sake.
She took a little nibble.
“I thought dating a billionaire meant going to fancy dinners and charity balls,” my date whined, “not jostling in a crappy small-town restaurant for free bread.”
“That’s too bad,” I said, “because this is the most exciting evening I’ve had since the town hall meeting last month.”
“Drink order?” Amy tapped her notepad.
“Raspberry muddle,” my date said sourly.
“And a scotch. And can I put in an order for extra bread?”
“No one gets extra bread!” Zoe yelled from behind the bar.
“But I’m going to pay for it.”
“There is a limit. You can’t just eat bread,” Amy told me.
“I don’t want to hear any more about the bread!” my date finally yelled. “It’s not even that good!”
The babbling in the restaurant was cut short. The crowd turned collectively to stare murderously at me and my date.
“Out!” Amy demanded, pointing at the door.
“Fine,” my date said, grabbing her bag and stomping out. “I’ve had enough of crazy small towns.”
Amy picked up the piece of bread my date had nibbled on and tore off a piece.
“Yum! I can’t believe she left. This is really good bread.”
My mouth fell open. “I can’t believe you just ate that!”
9
Amy
“That’s what she said,” I retorted, then realized that was a bit of a dirty joke, as Sebastian looked at me, horrified.
“Er…I’ll be right back with your drinks…uh…” I looked at his date’s empty spot. “Drink.”
“Did you just throw out one of my patrons?” Zoe asked me incredulously.
“She insulted the bread,” I insisted. “Also, she’s clearly a gold digger. Sebastian doesn’t need that in his life.”
Zoe’s eyebrows rose into her bright-pink hairline. My friend liked to experiment with hair color. “Someone is territorial.”
“I’m just doing my civic duty!” I protested, grabbing a piece of the bread then stuffing it into my mouth.
* * *
I really should not have been soconcerned with Sebastian’s future. What did I care?
I had bigger problems to worry about, one of which confronted me when Baxter and I, loaded down with local food from my favorite restaurants in town, heaved open the door to my narrow Manhattan apartment-closet.
On top of the pile of mail on the floor was a notice from the landlord.
