“You’ll feel better once the food comes. Did you eat today?”
“Do you ask all your dates what they ate?” Nicholas snarks.
“Only the ones who burn six thousand calories a day as a professional athlete and therefore are likely to experience more severe blood sugar crashes when they don’t eat enough,” Andrew answers. “Alternatively, you ate plenty today and your default is just an asshole.”
“I am an asshole,” Nicholas confirms, “don’t expect anything else.”
Most people take this as their cue to depart, but Andrew merely sips his water again, seemingly unruffled by Nicholas’s bark. He’s so calm that Nicholas can’t decide if it makes him want to calm down to match Andrew’s energy or rile Andrew up. It’s contradictory and a little arousing, only confusing Nicholas further.
“Why the fuck won’t Charlie believe we’re dating?” Nicholas demands, needing a distraction.
“Oh, because.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Because you’re you,” Andrew offers, as if that explains anything.
“Don’t fucking telling me I’m not good enough? I’m rich, famous and sexy as fuck.”
“So modest too,” Andrew deadpans.
“Fu—”
“Your dinner, sirs.”
Nicholas sits up a little straighter. He might’ve done his best to drill out the social niceties and fine manners his parents spent thousands of dollars instilling in him with nannies and boarding school, but he’s got enough to know to be polite when a server is around. Soon the table is covered in an array of colorful dishes, at least on Andrew’s side. Nicki’s steak and mushrooms pales in comparison to the multitude of dishes set in front of Andrew.
“Why are there so many plates?” Nicholas asks.
“I don’t like when my food touches,” Andrew answers, the expression on his face making it clear he’s waiting for Nicholas to poke fun. He might be an asshole, but he’s not a fucking dick.
“Fair enough,” Nicholas shrugs, digging into his own food with intensity.
To his surprise, Andrew doesn’t pepper him with more questions, or push the stupid fucking paperwork. If anything he seems to almost disappear into himself, quietly eating. It’s not until Nicholas is almost done with his own food that he realizes Andrew is eating in a sequential pattern so that every plate has the exact same amount of food left on it. He’s well-mannered in an effortless way, the kind of way Nicholas’s parents wanted him to be but he could never manage. There’s something mesmerizing about the movement of his elegant hands as he uses the chopsticks and the little sigh of pleasure he makes when he takes a bite.
Nicholas can’t seem to take his eyes off Andrew, watching the chopsticks disappear between his narrow lips, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick the end.
Maybe Nicholas hit his head against the boards harder than he thought in the game last night. That’s the only conceivable explanation for why he’s getting a hard on under the table watching Andrew fucking King eat sushi.
Suddenly his own appetite is gone, and he pokes morosely at his own food. Someone like Andrew probably wouldn’t date Nicholas for real. Not that he wants to date Andrew, or anyone else for that matter. Watching his parents' toxic marriage unfold was enough to turn him off the idea of relationships completely. Regardless, it’s hard for Nicholas not to compare them. While Andrew is not wealthy or famous, he’s effortlessly refined like he belongs here. He’s also clearly a much nicer person than Nicholas since he’s here against his own desires because Amanda and Denise asked for his help. What kind of person does shit they don’t want to, especially fake dating someone, just because someone needed help? Someone who is a better person than Nicholas, that’s for sure.
“Is something wrong with your food?” Andrew questions.
“No, it’s perfect.” Nicholas makes a show of taking a bite, chewing it is suddenly like chewing sandpaper. He needs to get the fuck out of here. He can’t sit across from this man who is kind and decent and obnoxiously handsome.
He needs to do something—break something or get drunk or punch someone. He needs to get behind the wheel of his Ferrari and find a deserted road to speed down. Anything besides sitting here in his own brain.
“We should get the check.”
Andrew blinks, glancing down at his own side of the table. “I’m not done yet.”
“You can finish, I’ll pay.”
“Oh.” Andrew’s cheeks darken, his face falling. “I understand.”
“Understand what?” Nicholas questions.
“You’ve changed your mind,” Andrew says, looking resigned. “I thought you might but, well—it doesn’t matter.”
