Page 18 of Paths
His grin fades into a smirk and he jerks his chin. “Hit me.”
Without looking at my notepad, I say, “A kale, brussel sprout, and broccolini salad, with finely shredded carrots, red cabbage, minced red onion, dried cranberries with fresh parsley. It’s dressed and massaged with freshly squeezed lemon, garlic, and olive oil.” I watch his smirk disappear and he slowly starts to grimace, but I persevere. “Instead of a sandwich, Maggie’s created a lovely grilled tofu lettuce wrap with an almond dipping sauce.” His grimace turns to a scowl. “She’s also made a cabbage roll soup. Would you like me to describe it?”
“No,” he answers emphatically.
I smile. “Are you sure? The soup is packed with cabbage, offering all kinds of health benefits, from preventing colon cancer to healing ulcers to relieving muscle soreness. It would actually be really good for your shoulder.”
He frowns, appearing deeply disturbed by the food I just described. “Are you serious?”
I smile bigger and roll my eyes. “No, but that was fun. You’re really weird about food, you know.”
I don’t think he found any of that fun because he narrows his eyes on me, shaking his head.
“Although, the soup of the day really is cabbage roll, and cabbage is good for you. It even has meat—beef and pork. You should try it.”
His smirk reappears. “Maya, you’re a smartass.”
“Maybe,” I tip my head, “but you’re like a five-year-old who refuses to eat his vegetables.”
“I like what I like, but I promise you, I’m most definitely a man.”
I shake my head and take a breath, needing to stick with the topic of food rather than Grady being a man. “What can I get you?”
He ignores me and asks, “Why are you working as a waitress when you’re a physical therapist?”
Honestly, I’m really sick of lying. I’m relieved when I can mostly give him the truth. “I just moved here and don’t have my Virginia license yet.”
“Where did you move from?”
Trying to keep up with the conversation without pause and be as truthful as possible, I answer, “The northeast.”
“Northeast?”
“Yeah. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Where in the northeast?”
Not liking his bombardment of questions, I decide a distraction would be best. I reach to my left for a clean wine glass and place it in front of him. Grabbing two bottles in each hand out of the refrigerator below the bar, I ask, “How about a tasting?” I don’t wait for him to answer and pour a small amount of the Petit Manseng. “Addy grows these grapes here at Whitetail. Try it.”
He works his jaw as if he’s thinking before he picks up the glass and tosses back the contents. I was hopeful he’d give up, but he continues. “What brought you to Virginia?”
I quickly uncork the Viognier, giving him a healthy splash, and continue telling truths. “It can be cold in the northeast.”
He picks up his glass, but before taking a sip—or a gulp—asks, “It’s not cold here?”
“Fine. It’s colder there. Now drink,” I demand, ready with the next bottle. I’m glad Evan isn’t here. This is like the speed-round of wine tasting. He wouldn’t be happy seeing fine wine that should be savored being downed like cheap tequila.
Grady swallows it in one gulp. “True.”
His glass barely hits the bar when I start pouring and giving him the super-duper abridged tasting edition. “Chardonnay. Popular, crisp acidity, good with fish or white meats.”
He looks at me inquisitively when he keeps on. “Why haven’t you gotten your Virginia license? Since you’re working on my shoulder and all, I should probably make sure you’re legit.”
He picks up the Chardonnay and swallows, waiting on my answer. I continue to tell him the truth, even though the truth is getting fuzzier by the second. “I’m working on it.”
He continues to taste the special blend named The Delaney, a Riesling, and Cab, all the while he asks about my job at the Ranch, why I’m such a vegetable pusher, my favorite color, and what I like to eat on my pizza besides vegetables.
He tosses back the Merlot as I answer about the pizza. “Mushrooms.”
