Fair.
He takes his seat, continuing our date as if the dark red wax isn’t covering half of the small table.
“I made pasta,” he says, lifting the covers off the dishes in front of us.
“Oh, wow. No one has ever cooked for me before,” I say, genuinely impressed. Butterflies go crazy in my stomach as I once again consider swooning.
“It seemed simple enough. The Barefoot Contessa is a very good teacher. I only wish I could’ve pressed some fresh olive oil instead of buying some from the store, but there’s only so much time in a day.”
“Well, it looks amazing,” I say, gathering some of the noodles, peppers, sauce, and chicken on my fork and taking a big bite.
It’sveryseasoned. My eyes water instantly as I try not to choke.
“How is it?” he asks, hope-filled eyes trained on me.
I swallow down the salty bite and take a big chug of wine, wincing when I accidentally swallow a bug, before answering. “I can honestly say that I’ve never tasted anything like this,” I say, my voice cracking as I chew through the burning pain of too much salt.
His eyes narrow, scrutinizing my reaction.
I widen my eyes, aiming for an innocent look.
“You hate it,” he says, tone disappointed.
Another mosquito dive-bombs my ankle. I slap at it hastily and nearly knock the table over. Again. Ember catches the wine bottle mid-fall with inhuman reflexes, and we sit in silence for a minute, candles flickering ominously in the breeze.
“It’s tasty! Maybe next time use a little less salt?”
He huffs a laugh despite his disappointment, and I admire his blushing cheeks. He really is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life. A slight sheen of sweat glistens at his temple, and I wonder what it would taste like. My omega has never been so curious about someone before.
The garden chooses that moment to drop a petal directly into my wine glass.
“Ambiance,” Ember says dryly, plucking the petal out.
I snort. The snort turns into a giggle, which turns into full, undignified laughter. I try to stop. I swear.
He watches me laugh, a small smile softening the firm lines of his face.
“You find this funny?”
“It’s so bad,” I wheeze. “The lights are dead, my chair is wobbling so hard I’m about to fall over, I’m slowly being drained of my blood by rabid bugs, and the pasta is poisoned with an insane amount of salt.”
He finally releases a laugh, quiet at first, then growing fuller. The sound settles something in my chest, dissolving the tension and anxiety I had tonight. What others might see as a disaster, I see as the best date I’ve ever had.
Two idiots. In a mosquito-filled garden. Lit only by citronella candles.
Our laughter fades into something softer. His hair is messy from the breeze, making it stick up in different directions instead of the smooth strands he had earlier. He seems more human now. More relatable.
“I really wanted to do something nice for you,” he says, his voice laced with quiet honesty. “You’re always arrangingthings for other people. Always doing your best for them. I thought someone should make an effort for you. You deserve it.”
He shrugs awkwardly.
Welp.
That’s the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. This man is dangerous. I can see myself easily falling for him. Instead of focusing on that, I do what I always do and lean on my sarcasm to get me through these emotional times.
“You didn’t need to nearly poison me to do that, you know,” I say with a laugh.
He smiles faintly, his white teeth glinting in the candlelight. “I’ll work on it.”
