“Oh, sorry, that’s the chef,” he says with a laugh. “So, you know, I trust his opinion.”
“Is that what you’re getting?”
“Probably,” he says, tilting his head back and forth. “He also tells me really good things about the lobster tail. It’s brushed in butter and garlic and served with truffle mashed potatoes.”
Fuck, those both sound delicious. I’m hungry enough that I feel like I could eat both.
“Hey, I think I have a brilliant idea,” he says, leaning in close. “How about we share?”
Does he mean share our meal? Like just order one? Shit, he must be panicking about the prices, too. But he’d never say so.
“Sure, I’m not that hungry, anyway. Which one do you want to get?”
Waylon narrows his eyes at me, looking utterly confused. But the moment it dawns on him what it is I’m saying, his face softens and a little grin punctuates his expression.
“Lyric, I’m in no way what anyone would call rich, but I do make a very good living and I don’t buy a lot of unnecessary shit. And I would never, under any circumstances, have brought you here if I was worried about pinching my pennies,” he says before taking a breath.
He reaches across the table and takes my hand into his. His fingers play with the silver band around my thumb, twisting it as he sighs.
“I meant, what if we order the steak dish and the lobster dish and share them with each other?” he asks.
His clarifying statement hits me like a purse full of bricks to the face. I feel so dumb, I’m sure my face is an abnormal shade of pink.
Ben decides this is a good time to bring us our wine. He makes a fancy spectacle of opening it and letting Waylon sniff the cork. He puts a very small amount into a glass, then swishing it around as he hands it over for Waylon to taste.
Once Waylon has approved, he proceeds to pour two full glasses and places them in front of us. For Ben’s next trick, he produces an ice bucket on its own stand and places it next to the table for the bottle to rest in.
“May I take your order now?” Ben asks.
Waylon looks over at me, the question of sharing still written in his features. I give him a little nod, signaling I’m on board, and he winks back at me.
I notice Ben listens and asks questions but doesn’t write anything down, which is impressive considering I can walkfrom my bedroom to the kitchen and forget what I went in there for.
Once we’re alone at the table again, I look around and take in the ambience. There are plush emerald green tapestries, highlighted with golden yellow accents. From the seating to the tablecloths, to the waitstaff’s uniforms, everything is coordinated and intentional. The low lighting and gold candelabras cast a wonderfully romantic atmosphere.
When the food comes, Waylon moves the plates so they’re side by side and equal distance between us.
I bite into the lobster first, nearly weeping at how it melts in my mouth. When I try the steak next, I find it equally mouthwatering. I really thought I’d be able to pick a favorite, but it’s impossible. “We should come eat this every week.”
“Sure thing,” he says, stuffing a forkful of pasta into his mouth. “I’ll mortgage the house, we’ll live in a box, but we’ll eat like royalty for a while.”
We eat and talk—eventually about more than the food—and Waylon pours more wine. A dessert menu never appears, but two slices of decadent cheesecake topped with chocolate shavings and berries are delivered by Ben.
“Chef Angelo sends his regards,” he says, then turns and leaves without saying anything else.
I look at Waylon, who’s wearing a little surprise on his face as well.
“Wow, you have nice friends.” I laugh, grabbing my fork without wasting any time. The first bite hits my tongue with an explosion of flavor. It’s so creamy and perfectly balancedwith notes of vanilla. I wiggle in my chair and look over to see if Waylon is having the same experience.
He’s staring at me with an amused twinkle in his eyes. It causes me to stop chewing for a moment as I look around.
“What?”
“Nothing. You just look cute,” he says.
My cheeks warm as his words melt into a blissful smile.Oh my.He licks his bottom lip, his expression turning a little darker.
“We should hurry,” he says, running his thumb over his mouth. “I need to get you home.”
