Page 234 of Terms of Exposure
I smiled at him just as the waiter entered the room, plates balanced on his arms.
"Really?" I said as the waiter placed Damien's order on the table.
Steak, medium rare, seasonal vegetables, sweet potato. Extra brown sugar on the side.
"Of course," he said. "I ordered the same thing the next night at Rosie's birthday dinner. The day you made me wait until evening to text me back. I had to hold back tears the entire meal—it was agony."
I jutted out my bottom lip and mocked, "Oh, I'm so sorry I made you sad."
He only smiled as the waiter placed my dish in front of me.
"The lobster ravioli," I realized, rolling my eyes. "You remembered my meal as well?"
"I remember everything about that night." He picked up his knife and fork. "Including the fact that you barely touched it."
"Well." I speared one of the delicate pillows with my fork. Steam curled from the butter-glossed pasta. "Let's see if it's any good."
Amazing.
Rich and tender, the lobster filling practically melting on mytongue, herbs and brown butter and just a hint of lemon cutting through the richness. I made a sound that was probably inappropriate for a public restaurant.
Damien's fork froze halfway to his mouth.
"If you keep making noises like that," he said, voice dropping, "we're not going to make it through the main course."
"I can't help it." I took another bite, letting my eyes flutter closed. "This is obscene."
"You're obscene."
"I'm appreciating the food," I moaned. "There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm sitting." He set his fork down, watching me with an intensity that made my skin warm. "From where I'm sitting, you're making sounds that belong in a very different context."
I opened my eyes. The candlelight caught the sharp planes of his face, the hunger he wasn't bothering to hide.
"Eat your steak," I said primly. "And your dessert potato."
"It's not a dessert potato."
"You have a ramekin of brown sugar. That makes it dessert."
"That makes it edible." He spooned a generous amount onto the split sweet potato. "I don't understand people who eat them plain."
"Normal people. Normal people eat them plain."
"Normal people are missing out." He picked up his fork and took a bite.
The brown sugar glistened on his lips before his tongue swept it away.
I looked back down at my ravioli. Safer territory.
The jazz curling around us as we ate, the candles flickering in their brackets. Every now and then I'd glance up and catch him watching me.
"Stop staring," I said, spearing another ravioli.
"No."
"It's unsettling."
