He fixes me with a look that would break any spy holding secrets. “We have time, considering they haven’t brought out appetizers.”
I’m saved from answering when our server appears, dropping off a water sans ice for me (because I’m weird and like it room temperature), steak tartare on crostini, crab cakes, breaded brussels sprouts with bacon and balsamic, and a beet salad with goat cheese.Damn. I dig right in. It’s not until I’m one crab cake and four brussels sprouts deep that I notice Cameron only eating the salad. He’s pushing it around with his fork, taking small, careful bites while the tartare sits untouched and the crab cakes haven’t moved.
It hits me like a freight train.
“Cameron.” I set down my fork. “You can’t eat most of this.”
His eyes flick up to mine, caught. “It’s fine?—”
“Did you tell them before we sat down?” I wave at the kitchen.
He shifts in his seat, grimacing a little. “Sloane said she’d call ahead to let them know, but maybe she forgot. It’s fine. I don’t want to make it a big thing. The salad’s good and I’m sure each course will come with at least one thing I can eat.”
“You’re going to eat around everything?” The words come out sharper than I mean them to. “Unless you have a fetish involving watching women stuff their faces, I will not be the only one enjoying the food.”
“It’s fine,” he says in a tone that makes it seem like he’s consoling me instead of vice versa.
It’s not fine. Not even a little. I raise my hand, signaling to the server.
“Hi, how’s everything tasting?” he asks, that practiced server smile in place.
“Great, but he can’t eat most of these,” I inform him, swirling a finger over the medley of decidedly nongluten-free apps. “He’s celiac.”
His eyes widen, his smile faltering. “Oh. Did we not…” He looks from me to Cameron. “I’m so sorry. There wasn’t a note on the reservation. Let me grab the chef. We can absolutely accommodate. Give me just a moment.”
He’s gone before either of us can respond.
Cameron’s jaw tightens, the muscles twitching. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.” I pick up my wineglass and take a deliberate sip. “You were going to sit here and eat salad for six courses like some kind of martyr.”
“I wasn’t trying to be a martyr?—”
“Then what were you trying to be? Polite?” I angle forward. “It’s a restaurant. Their one job is to feed you. You’re not being difficult by being celiac.”
He looks down at his plate, like he’s used to being a burden because he has unique dietary needs. An ache forms in my throat. His facial expressions and changes in body language are subtle, but not so subtle that I don’t see every one.
Within minutes, the server returns with the chef, a woman in her forties with kind eyes and flour on her apron. “I am so sorry about the mix-up,” she says, directing her attention to Cameron. “I’m preparing a separate tasting menu for you. Everything will be gluten-free with no cross-contamination.”
He nods, his ears going pink and his imposing frame somehow looking smaller. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Of course.” She smiles warmly before heading back to the kitchen.
Soon after, the server sets a fresh plate of appetizers on the table. The gluten-free options are just as beautiful as all the others. Maybe more so.
Cameron stares at his options for a moment, silent, before picking up his fork and eventually digging in.
When he’s had three or four bites of seared scallops, I clear my throat. “Better?”
A look of surprised relief flickers on his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “Yeah.”
We eat our appetizers in silence, and to no one’s surprise, I’m the one who breaks it. I don’t mind silence as a general concept, but I can’t handle itwithCameron. His presence is so imposing, like a weight sitting on my chest, and the only way to breathe is to, well, babble.
“Have you ever started a fight on ice?”
He looks up from his plate, fork halfway to his mouth. “It’s the number-one unspoken rule that you don’t fuck with a goalie,” he tells me. “And if you do, someone else on the team will kick your teeth in, because goalies don’t really fight.”
Oh.
