Page 57 of My Favorite Hero

I stared at him. “That was inappropriate.”

He frowned. “I know Brittany well.”

I took a sip of water, tamping down my temper. “Not only that—maybe I didn’t want pasta.”

“It’s pasta night,” he grumbled.

There was an uncomfortable silence. I cleared my throat. “Did you come straight from work?”

“No. I went home and got ready. Made an effort.” His gaze flickered over me. “More than I could say for you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t you own a dress? We’re supposed to be on a date. Not going for yoga.”

I looked down. I wore a pretty pair of leggings with fancy trim. A blouse that had flowers on it. Flowers. My good shoes. I had dried my hair and curled it. I’d used eyeliner—it failed, but I tried. I put on colored lip gloss. I had thought I looked nice.

Better than nice.

“I don’t like dresses,” I said between tight lips. “Or your attitude.” I was shocked at his behavior. Where was the somewhat funny, seemingly decent guy from two days ago? I should have listened to my gut.

“Since I’m paying for dinner, I can have any attitude I like.”

The waitress came over, sliding our meals in front of us. A huge pile of spaghetti with meatballs was on the plate. Red sauce dripped over the edges. A basket of garlic bread was placed in the middle of the table.

My appetite was gone. I had no desire to sit across from Chris and listen to his complaining all night.

“Whatever you can’t eat, I will,” he informed me. “I assume you have a good appetite, given your, ah, figure, but I doubt you can polish it off.”

“My figure?” I asked.

“I usually like thin girls,” he said, talking with his mouth full, the sauce dribbling out the corner. “But I thought I’d make an exception. Cal said you were awesome and everyone was looking at you on Saturday, so I decided to overlook it. I just thought you’d make more of an effort. Be girlier.”

“Really.” He’d asked me on a date because other people looked at me. How flattering.

He shoved in another mouthful, chewing loudly. Unbidden, I thought of Jesse. He ate a lot, but he did it with manners. He chewed slowly, enjoying his food. He knew the purpose of a napkin.

He never once pointed out my flaws and said he’d overlook them.

“Are you going to sulk or eat?”

“Do you still have my number?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Lose it.”

Then I stood. I resisted dumping the spaghetti over his head since that would cause the waitress more work. I shoved the plate toward him. “Enjoy it.”

He reached over and grabbed my wrist. “Sit down.”

“No.”

He squeezed, and I winced in pain.

“I said sit down.”

I sat back down in the booth, pulling on my arm. He let go, glaring. The action knocked over his glass, and the remnants of his beer splashed onto the sleeve of my blouse. I grabbed a napkin to mop it up.