Page 58 of Golden Goal

I glance over at our server who is shifting back and forth, his gaze bouncing between the two of us, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

Same buddy, same.

“I don’t drink,” I say, plucking a piece of bread from the basket.

Cyril frowns again, staring down at his menu before looking up at me. “Really? I thought I saw you drinking at the bar.”

I internally grimace. Seriously? Are you trying to catch me in a lie?

“Nope.”

“I’ll be right back with your beer,” the server says, backing away.

I turn my attention back to my menu hoping that this night gets better.

“I could have recommended a light beer if you’re afraid of the calories.”

My eyes widen. Did he really say that?

“I’m not afraid of the calories. I. Don’t. Drink.”

“Fine. Fine,” he says, splaying his hands out on the table. “I can take a hint,” he mutters.

You have got to be kidding me. Two minute penalty for being an asshole.

I ignore his comment, studying the menu. I sure hope this isn’t an indication of how tonight is going to go.

A few minutes later, our server returns. “Are you ready to order?” He sets Cyril’s beer down.

“Yes,” Cyril says without asking me if I am.

Excuse me? And we’re back in the penalty box.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the server says, turning to me.

“She’ll have the eggplant parmesan with a side salad. No—”

What the actual fuck.

“Wait, one moment,” I interrupt.

Cyril furrows his brow at me. “I assumed because you were vegetarian . . .”

“I’m not vegetarian,” I say through gritted teeth.

“How about I give you a minute?” our server suggests before making a hasty retreat.

“I was only trying to be a gentleman. I thought women appreciated it when their date ordered for them?” Cyril gives me what I think is supposed to be a sexy smirk, but on him it comes across as condescending.

My mouth falls open. I’d literally rather be anywhere but here. Removing my napkin from my lap as I stand, I grab my purse.

“You know what? I don’t think this is going to work out. I’m going to go.”

“Really?” He looks around, everywhere but at me. “You’re going to walk out on dinner? I was just trying to be nice and order for you.” His voice pitches up at the end, and I see a few patrons staring.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” I cross my arms. “You didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t drink. You don’t even know me, yet you think you can order for me. Without even asking?” I shake my head. “Bye, Cyril. Lose my number.”

When I’m safely in my car, with the door locked, I slowly count to ten, trying to calm my racing heart. This is why I don’t date. Because it never goes well.