Page 81 of The Reason I Married Him
“No,” he scoffs. “I’m not that much older.”
“How much is not that much?” I ask, liking how he’s squirming.
“Seven years. Not bad.”
“You’re in your mid-thirties? Yikes.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No yikes. There is nothing yikes about mid-thirties. Mid-thirties is great. You don’t care about what people think about you, you have a more established career, and you’re in tune with your body, which means you don’t abuse it with late-night drinking and hangover cures. You get an honest night’s sleep and understand the importance of vitamins, drinking water, and exercise. And if you want to host a dinner party, you don’t have to ask people to bring something because you can provide the food yourself.”
“Wow, you paint the mid-thirties like a theme park. All fun, all the time.”
“You’re welcome,” he says in such a sarcastic tone. “Now, is there any wisdom I can impart on you?”
“Not sure, Granddad. I’ll let you know if I think of something, though.”
“Such a wise-ass,” he says as we turn toward Provisions, the burger and fries joint here in Almond Bay.
He opens the door for me and presses his hand to my lower back once again when we walk up to the hostess.
“Hey, Aubree,” Meredith says. Her eyes fall to Wyatt, and she lightly pushes her hair behind her ear. “Table for two?”
“Actually, we have a reservation under Frogmore? I believe I asked for a second-floor table looking out over the ocean.”
“Yes, Mr. Frogmore, right this way.” Meredith collects two menus and guides us up the wooden stairs to the second floor and the back deck. The sun is starting to set, and the sound of the ocean blocks out the people around us.
Wyatt pulls out my chair while Meredith sets the menus on the table. “Your server will be with you soon.”
When she’s gone, I lean forward and whisper, “Frogmore?”
He smirks and opens his menu. “Why give your real name when you can give a fake name?”
“Because it’s weird.”
“How is it weird?” he asks. “No one knows me here, so I might as well have some fun.”
“They know you just enough to know that Frogmore is a fake.”
He shrugs. “Let me add, when you’re in your mid-thirties, you easily start not giving a fuck. Very freeing.”
“Apparently.”
I don’t bother opening my menu. I know exactly what I like to eat here. The Hawaiian burger with fries and sweet and sour dipping sauce. The perfect combination.
“Hmm, there are a lot of burger choices. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many. Jesus, and look at all the dipping sauces.”
“That’s what they’re known for here. The fries—courtesy of the farm’s potatoes—are crispy and delicious, and they offer different dipping sauces to go with them.”
“Okay, what’s your favorite?”
“The Hawaiian.” With one eyebrow raised, he glances over the menu.
“That has pineapple on it.”
“And your point?” I ask.
“Burgers should not have pineapple on them.”
“Says who?”
