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When Lola and I were teens, we read an article about supertasters, people who genetically have more tastebuds and thus can taste more of what they eat. It makes them unintentionally picky eaters. Lola ordered some silly test with paper strips that you place on your tongue, and while she only tasted paper, I tasted the chemicals.
Just another fun thing my parents gave me. You know, anxiety, the need for revenge, tenure at a strip club, and the weird ability to taste things.
On the bright side, the women at the events I go to aren’t necessarily graded on how well they eat. In fact, the more you eat at those parties, the more you’re judged. So, I’ve learned to pick at what I don’t hate and then push things around until the rest of the plates get taken away.
It works like a charm and has never let me down.
But I should have known that nothing gets past this man. My trick works through course one, but by two, Dante has questions.
Goddammit.
“What is it?” he asks, putting his fork to the side and looking at me. I straighten my back and smile wide.
“What?”
“Drop the look. What’s wrong?”
“I don't know what you mean. Nothing's wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong?”
“Nope.”
“Then why are you pushing your food around like it might attack you?”
“I’m doing no such thing,” I say, dropping my fork but also freaked the fuck out that he noticed.
“Delilah, don’t play games with me. Other men you’ve been out with, they’re fools. I’ll tell you that now. I am not a fool. I don’t fall for a pretty smile on a mouth I want to fuck.” The air seizes in my lungs. “What’s wrong with the food?”
My tongue comes out, tasting my lips, my mind still stuck on the sentence prior.
His lips turn up in a slight smile that is absolutelydevious.
“Yeah, you heard me. But right now, we’re talking about food,fiorella.”
“Food,” I say, the word a mere whisper out of my throat.
“What’s wrong with it?” he asks, his eyes locked on mine, and something about it has me confessing. Something about the way his eyes lock to mine, the genuine caring in his voice despite the firm tone—I can’t resist.
“It’s great, I’m sure . . . I just . . .” I sigh, embarrassed. “I’m the world’s pickiest eater. I can’t help it. I taste things that people just . . . don’t.”
I expect the eyeroll.
I expect the huff.
I expect him to say something like,Just give it a try! Maybe you’ll like it!
Or maybe,You never grew out of that?
Instead, he surprises yet again.
“What do you eat when you’re out?” he asks, taking the napkin in his lap and moving it to the table. Again, despite the pounding embarrassment and panic in my chest, he looks at me, and I have to answer.
“I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“I mean, if I'm somewhere I like, I eat. But if it’s a place like this—” I wave my hand around. “I just . . .”Oh god, why am I telling this man this?!“I make it look like I eat and then eat when I get home.”
