Emma presses her lips together, trying not to laugh, but her shoulders shake. My ears burn as the pianist resumes, and the surrounding diners stare and laugh. At least I covered my black eye with tinted glasses. With my hair slicked back, it’s not much of a disguise, but this isn’t a restaurant people come to be seen.
“At least they know you’re keen,” Emma whisper-chokes which is cute as fuck and twice as adorable.
Things go from awkward to worse when the waiter arrives with our drinks, acting as if he’s either drunk or it’s his first night. My sparkling water is safe, but Emma’s white wine becomes a casualty. The tray wobbles, he over-corrects, and the wine is over her lap while broken glass becomes a shrine around her feet.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. This is gonna cost me my job,” the waiter gasps, dabbing uselessly at the spreading stain.
“It’s fine,” Emma says, laughing as she grabs a napkin. “Honestly, it kind of works with the floral print, doesn’t it?” She laughs, waving at her stained dress. “Not exactly the wet t-shirt competition look I was going for.”
“Not that I wouldn’t saynoto you in a wet tee, but I’m so sorry.“ I hand her more napkins and glare at him to stop dabbing at my date. “I swear this isn’t how I planned the night.”
“Relax,” she says, still genuinely laughing while waiters scramble to clear away the glass. “I’ve survived worse. But it’s an interesting way to keep me from running away—surround me in broken glass.”
By the time our meals arrive, I’m praying for a win. Something, anything, to turn the tide. But when Emma cuts into her grilled chicken, she freezes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
She flips the piece of chicken, revealing the raw center. “Well, I was hoping for a meal that had stopped clucking.”
I’m halfway out of my seat, ready to call the waiter, but she grabs my hand. “It’s fine,” she says, grinning. “I’ll just stick to the salad. At least lettuce doesn’t need cooking.”
I slump back in my chair, muttering under my breath. “Please don’t judge me by the restaurant I chose.”
“You’d rather I judge you on the company you keep?” She laughs and starts counting on her fingers. “Fuck boy footballers, infatuated influencers, groping groupies, phony photographers …”
“As much as I want you to come up with more alliterations, please stop.” I take her hand. “I wanted the night to be perfect so you’d think we could be a perfect pair.”
“Mmm, say it again,” she leans in and purrs with those sexy eyes flirting with me.
“What, alliteration or perfect pair?”
“Do you know how sexy it sounds—a gorgeous man, war damaged with cuts and bruises, sounding intelligent?”
“What if I told you I want a business career after football?” I don’t need to tell her about my study if she laughs at what I want to do with it.
“I’d tell you that I don’t plan on being a cheerleader or dancer for the rest of my life.”
“Are we moving into second date conversation?” I ask, remembering our challenge the night we met—to pretend we were on our sixth date and already knew all the basics.
“Maybe, or maybe our seventh.” Emma smiles, and I squeeze her left hand. She only needs one hand to finish her salad.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” the waiter interrupts. I look to Emma who mouths “your place for dessert.”
“No, just the bill.”
Except, when the check comes, I reach for my wallet. Fuck. No. My wallet isn’t in my pocket. Fuck me. No phone. No wallet. Nothing.
“Oh, no,” I whisper.
“What?” Emma asks, her brow furrowing.
“I left my phone and wallet at home,” I admit, sinking into my chair and wishing it was the ground. “I wanted to avoid distractions, but now I can’t…” I gesture helplessly at the bill.
Emma stares at me for a second before bursting into laughter. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” I groan, running a hand through my hair. “I’m so sorry. This is… this is not how I’d imagined tonight going.”
She’s already pulling out her card. “Don’t worry about it. If it doesn’t clear, you’ll just have to wash dishes.”
