Page 8 of Win a Date with a Baker

She looks up. Recognition flashes across her face, then disappears just as quickly. Replaced by something much cooler.

Well. Hell. She obviously remembers me too. I wince inwardly. Of course, she knows who I am. She bid on a date with me.

I pull out her chair automatically. “Good evening.”

“Hi.” She sits.

No smile. No warmth. Just one clipped syllable.

I sit across from her. “So...”

“So.”

This is already going terribly. The waiter appears with champagne, saving me from having to try another subject. Not that so is much of a subject.

He launches into an explanation of the first course involving words likedeconstructedandmicrogreensandfoam.

I don’t hear a single one.

Because all I can think is:She’s even prettier than I remembered.

And—I was a complete jackass.

I hope she doesn’t hold that against me.

By the fourth course, it’s clear she has.

Oh, she’s answered every question politely. But also briefly.

“Do you work nearby?”

“Mostly.”

“How long have you lived in Vegas?”

“A while.”

“Do you like to travel?”

“Sometimes.”

I have had conversations with sourdough starters that were more animated.

Finally, I set my fork down. “Okay.”

She looks up. “Okay?”

“I’ve got to ask.”

Her expression stays carefully neutral.

I rub the back of my neck. “Did I...” God, this is awkward. “...did I do something?”

One eyebrow lifts. “You really don’t know?”

A sinking feeling settles in my stomach. “I have a guess.”

She folds her napkin neatly onto her lap. “I’ve been looking forward to this date for weeks.”