Which it won’t be.
I’ll smile and be polite, make small talk about things neither of us cares about, and at the end of the night, I’ll tell him that there was no spark and thank him for a nice evening. If all goes well, I’ll be tucked up in bed with my book by ten.
“Can I help you?” The maître d’ asks, his eyes moving over the simple black dress I chose for the evening. It flatters my curves while remaining modest, and it’s a staple in my closet for anything that involves my family.
“I’m meeting Trent Bradley,” I reply with a polite smile.
If there’s one thing I learned growing up surrounded by people who lived to drag me down, it’s how to be nice to anyone, even when they’re an asshole.
His brows lift slightly, clearly surprised that I would be meeting a man of such caliber, but he quickly turns, indicating for me to follow him.
We reach the far side of the restaurant quicker than is comfortable in these heels, but he wasn’t waiting for me, anddespite his judgment, I can never bring myself to be rude, even when someone deserves it.
Trent spots me, dragging his eyes over my body in a way that has my skin crawling before he pushes himself to his feet to greet me.
“Thank you,” I say quietly to the maître d’.
“Hannah, it’s lovely to meet you at last. Your grandfather speaks very fondly of you.”
Lie.
No one in my family has a single nice thing to say about me. I’ve been a disappointment since the day I came out of the womb without a penis, and they take any opportunity to tell people exactly that.
“It’s nice to meet you, Trent.”
He leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek, and I force myself not to flinch at the contact.
I shouldn’t be here.
I should be home with Asher.
And I certainly shouldn’t have come without telling my boyfriend what was happening.
God, I’m the worst.
Maybe my family is right to think that of me.
Trent moves to pull my chair out for me, and I carefully sit, folding my hands in my lap while he moves back to his seat.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for you,” he informs me, explaining why there’s no menu sitting at my place at the table.
“Oh.” The response catches us both off guard. I know better than to make a comment on such things, but how much of a dick do you have to be to order for someone you’ve never met? “Thank you. I’m not sure if my grandfather told you, but I don’t eat red meat.”
He stares at me across the table as if I’ve sprouted a second head. “Why the hell not? You’re not one of those animal rightspeople, are you? Because you know they’re bred to be eaten, right?”
I open my mouth to respond, my chest tightening because I know exactly how this conversation is going to go. I’ve had it with my family enough times to practically recite it as it happens. “It makes me sick. Red meat can be difficult for the body to break down and digest, and my doctor and I made the choice to cut it from my diet almost a decade ago.”
He stares across the table at me, likely trying to reformulate his opinion on the situation. People who think they know better about literally every single topic always think they can change your mind on something. “Obviously, you need to see another doctor. No respectable medical professional would ever tell you not to eat something that’s so good for the body. I’ll make you an appointment with my guy.”
I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’m quite happy with my diet the way it is.”
“Well, you could certainly do to lose a few pounds, so you should think about making some changes.”
My mouth drops open in surprise. He really just said the quiet part out loud. It’s not the first time a man has commented on my body without being asked, and I’m sure it won’t be the last, but that doesn’t make it any less shitty to hear.
I’m saved from responding when a plate is carefully placed in front of me, complete with a large piece of steak.
I press my lips together as I try to decide how to navigate this.
