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I didn’t make a habit of eating—in fact, I actively abstained from it unless I felt like I was about to pass out—but Italian food was my weakness.
My mouth watered, and my palms began to sweat in anticipation of what was about to happen. Of the damage I was about to do. Of the guilt I was going to be racked with later.
“This is my new favorite restaurant,” I murmured, watching our server set a plate of baseball-sized garlic knots dusted with Parmesan cheese on the table.
With far more class than I could ever hope to possess, Ken nodded in approval as he pinched a piece off of his fluffy hunk of heaven and popped it into his mouth.
Resisting the urge to shove mine into my mouth all at once, I took a bite out of the side like an apple and immediately felt a shot of dopamine explode through my body. My eyes rolled up in the back of my head as I partook in my guiltiest pleasure—carbs.
After the first bite, I was triggered. I wanted to binge. I wanted to eat my roll, Ken’s roll, and every beautiful golden-brown ball of sin in the building, but I had to pretend to be normal. I had to smile and breathe and make small talk with my cute, quiet date.
“So”—I set the doughy crack rock onto my plate and looked up—“how did somebody so…shy end up being the manager of a movie theater? It seems like you would have to be the center of attention a lot with that job.” I’d chosen my words carefully, not wanting to accidentally insult him.
“Not really.” Ken shrugged, taking a sip from his glass of water. “I mostly stay in the office, doing paperwork, all day. If there’s a problem with a customer, I have one of the assistant managers deal with it.”
“Nice.” I laughed.
“It’s a job.” Ken lifted an impassive shoulder and let it fall. “But I get to see every movie that comes out for free, so that’s cool.”
“What would your dream job be?” I asked, taking another unladylike chomp out of my roll.
“I dunno,” Ken deadpanned. “To watch movies all day without having to work.”
“Dude, are you telling me, you have zero ambition to do anything but watch movies?”
“Yes,” Ken answered without a shred of sarcasm.
“Okay, so what if you had to work? Movies no longer exist, and you have to find a new job. What would you want to do?”
Ken stared at me like he was trying real hard not to roll his eyes. Then, he sighed. “I don’t know. Financial planning maybe? Or accounting?”
“Oh, man! You should do that! I’d hire you…if I had any money.” I giggled.
That earned a tiny half-smile from Ken. “What about you?” he asked over the rim of his water glass. “Is psychology your dream job?”
“I guess so,” I answered. “I mean, I love it, but I also love making art and writing poetry. I guess I just chose the thing I love that will pay the bills.” I shrugged. “Maybe, in my next life, I’ll come back as a National Geographic photographer. Wouldn’t that be amazing? To travel the world, taking pictures, and get paid for it?”
“I don’t think that’s how reincarnation works,” Ken teased.
“You don’t think reincarnation works at all.” I wiggled my head back and forth like a taunting child.
“Exactly.” Ken smiled, tipping his glass toward me like the smug, atheistic bastard he was.
While we teasingly debated what happens after you die, our server returned to take our orders. I got the eggplant Parmesan. Ken got the chicken Parmesan. It was the perfect metaphor for us. We had the same taste, but below the surface, we weren’t even the same species.
After what was hands down the best meal of my life, our server bagged up our leftovers and placed the check on a little silver tray in front of Ken. I giggled to myself as I watched him pore over the itemized bill, waiting to see if he would flat-out ask me to pay for my half or if his head would explode from the awkwardness first. As soon as our server left with his Mastercard, I reached into my purse and tossed a handful of twenty-dollar bills onto the table.
Ken’s face shot up immediately, his eyebrows stitched together.
“That’s for my Cirque ticket, my dinner, and half of the tip…unless you have a Buy One, Get One Free coupon I don’t know about.”
I would have paid sixty bucks just to see that expression. Ken’s lips parted, his shoulders relaxed, and his bright blue eyes sparkled like twin flames.
“No coupon”—Ken smiled, swiping the cash off the table—“but the chicken Parm was tonight’s special. I saw it on the chalkboard when we walked in.”
I laughed and shook my head. Ken might have been a cheap-ass bastard, but considering the fact that my last boyfriend had blown all his rent money on nose candy—and strippers named Candy—a grown-ass man with good credit was suddenly ranking pretty damn high on my list of turn-ons.
“And I get double cash back when I use my Mastercard at restaurants this month.”
