I shake my head, smiling. “She’s either going to love you or hate you.”
“Engage.” He crouches, darts his head both ways, then crosses the street.
What a goof.
But I still watch him as he crosses.
After he makes it to the other side, he gives me two thumbs-up, and I start walking toward the restaurant, hoping that Greg and Daphne aren’t awkwardly waiting. But as I approach, it’s obvious they don’t feel awkward at all. They’re laughing and chatting, and they look perfectly at ease.
Which is a good thing because it would be doubly weird if our dates didn’t get along.
“Hi!” I say as I reach them.
Greg spots me and steps away from Daphne. “Claire, hi!” He goes in to kiss my cheek, leaving a wet blob behind. “We were just talking about pickleball.”
“Oh, fun,” I say, trying to think of an inconspicuous way to wipe his slobber off my face.
“There’s Miles!” Daphne waves, and I follow her gaze to the street, where I see Miles crossing toward us, trying to tell myself that the slobber is a fluke and not at all an indication of how Greg might be as a kisser.
“Hey, guys! Hope you weren’t waiting too long,” Miles says with a quick glance at me. “Took me a minute to find a place to park.”
“Oh, I got a spot right at the end of the block,” I say with a smile.
Miles raises an eyebrow, and Daphne loops her arm through his and pulls him toward the door.
“It’s going to start soon,” she says. “I’ve beendyingto do one of these classes! I am terrible in the kitchen. Making drinks? Totally fine. Making dinner? Eh.” She pulls a face. “I just wish we weren’t doing sushi. I don’t think I’m ever going to want to make sushi at home.”
Miles tosses me a look as Daphne pulls him inside the restaurant, and Greg takes the door and politely ushers me through. Once we’re inside, I pause to look around the space. The front, near the windows facing the street, is a retail space with shelves of cooking gadgets and books and special sauces and pans.
Beyond that, toward the back of the space, is a large counter that stretches parallel to what looks a lot like the kitchen in any home. There are tables scattered throughout the space, and a well-stocked bar.
A man with a long black apron welcomes us and leads us back to the long counter where the class is held.
We get situated near the end of the counter, putting Miles and Daphne perpendicular to Greg and me. We each put on a white apron, and the class begins.
Daphne grabs Miles’s arm, looking at the portioned ingredients on the counter. “Actually... can I just watch?” She winces. “I don’t like to touch raw meat.”
“Uh, sure,” Miles says.
“You can make mine.” She scrunches her nose in what I think is supposed to be a cute expression, and if Miles is annoyed, he doesn’t let on, giving me a peek into how his easygoing personality plays out when he’s around other people.
We listen as a man who introduces himself as Chef Marioexplains the steps we need to take to turn the ingredients on the counter into “gorgeous sushi rolls.”
Miles becomes Daphne’s line cook as she points to the things she wants in her roll, and she watches, sipping wine and touching him.
A lot. There’s a lot of touching.
Greg is very focused as he follows each of the chef’s instructions precisely, determined to have “the best sushi roll in the class,” an accolade that I’m pretty sure would go to Miles if it were a real thing.
He doesn’t seem to need any instruction from the chef, moving around the counter with the same ease he seems to carry into every situation—even the ones that might be unfamiliar.
I envy him that.
Thankfully, unlike on the pickleball court, I also know my way around the kitchen, and when we’re finished and I present what I think is a pretty perfect sushi roll, Greg makes a face.
“Ah, nuts, yours is better than mine.” He says this lightly, just as self-effacing as he was on the pickleball court. It’s refreshing.
“Ooh, yeah, buddy. She’s got you there,” Miles teases, rubbing it in with an amused grin.
