Page 63 of How Not to Date a Griffin

A waiter appeared, collected their drink orders, and promised to return shortly. When he left, a comfortable silence settled over the table.

“Did you have a hand in creating all these dishes?” Nolan skimmed the menu, noting the array of different foods. There was surely something on there for everyone, from vegetarian options to vegan to steak and potatoes.

“I did, actually. I cooked for us a lot, growing up. It was my… thing, I guess. When I opened this place, I experimented a bit. The menu looks totally different now than it first did.”

Nolan liked the image he built in his mind of Reid cooking and playing and having fun in the kitchen. It fit.

“You’ll have to give me some pointers. I’m afraid the microwave is the most used appliance in my place,” Nolan confessed, realizing only after the words had left his lips how they sounded. As if this intense affair between them didn’t have an expiration date. As if the end of the week wasn’t looming closer by the hour.

“That’s unacceptable,” Reid retorted, shaking his head. “You don’t have a cook or something?”

“Why would I have a cook?” Nolan asked with a thrum of amusement.

He shrugged. “Dunno. Don’t rich people have those?”

Nolan’s lips twitched.

“I think we had one growing up, but I don’t have one now.”

“Well, you must not be that rich,” Reid said with a put-upon sigh. He shuffled in his seat before making to stand. “What am I even doing here, then—”

“Oh, shut up,” Nolan grumbled, and pulled him back into his seat, tugging him close in the booth. “If it’s money you want, you should’ve gone for the Senior Whittier,” he retorted.

Reid shuddered dramatically at the suggestion, and then watched Nolan peruse the food options, gaze heavy but quiet.

When the waiter returned, he had barely made a decision. Reid’s eyes crinkled with his amusement as Nolan pointed to an item on the laminated card stock and handed back the menu.

Reid’s pick was fast; he didn’t even have to glance down at the menu.

“I’ll get your order in, boss—I mean, sir,” the waiter said, a lopsided grin on his face at the blunder.

Reid rolled his eyes playfully. “Thanks, Evan.”

Nolan watched the exchange with a slowly growing smile, and when the kid was gone, Reid huffed. “Bunch of old ladies back there, probably gossiping.”

“About us?” Nolan guessed.

After sipping his cocktail, Reid nodded. “Yep. Usually don’t bring dates here.”

Nolan’s cheeks flushed at the simple admission that this was a date. Oh, he had it bad.

“And why is that?” He played with the silly umbrella in his drink, a piña colada. Three cherries. Another drink Reid had affectionately pestered him into selecting. Apparently, they were one of the special cocktails from the bar. It was a lovely relief against the sweltering heat outside, even as the sun began setting.

As his question sank in, Reid looked embarrassed, if Nolan could believe it. “Don’t know, actually. Just never considered it.”

“And why me, then?” A little fishing never hurt anyone, did it?

Reid’s cheeks flushed even more, a delightful glow on his face as he pointedly avoided eye contact, staring down at the rim of his glass with sudden interest. His lips moved in a mumble of something too low to catch, and Nolan grinned, leaning forward.

“What was that?”

Reid’s eyes flashed to his, and Nolan forgot how to breathe.

“I want you to like it,” he said, just loud enough for Nolan to hear. “M’proud of it.”

Oh, Nolan could kiss him.

So he did, taking advantage of the empty room, leaning into his space with a hand on his knee. The warmth of Reid’s lips was hot in comparison to his own, chilled from the frozen drink.