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“The Huntsman Platter,” I repeat with confidence.

“And you don’t want a steak . . . or salmon . . . for sure?”

Ha! A first drift toward a no.

I wave him off. “No, you’re right. That’s fine. It was a dumb idea.”

He jumps in. “No, Chloe, I think that’s a fine idea. I just . . . Ostrich doesn’t seem to be a specialty here. Given it’s a steak house.”

“He does have a point,” the server butts in.

“I believe the ostrich are actually a specialty from the Hanor family farm just down the road,” I correct. “See? Right here?” I point to the paragraph explanation in the far-right corner of the menu.

“Okay, sure,” James concedes. “But the alligator?”

The server taps his pen and points it at James as though that’s another good point.

I shrug. “So it’s shipped. Alligator’s shipped.”

“And the antelope?”

“Fancy person’s venison,” I continue. I throw up my hands. “But listen, if you don’t want to try it, don’t worry. I was just asking.”

He autocorrects. “No, no,” he says decisively, shutting the menu and handing it over. “I think . . . that sounds just great for the evening. I think that’s a fun idea, Chloe.” He looks at the server. “Can you put us down for two orders of the Huntsman, please?”

“Of course,” he says, snapping his pen shut along with his notebook, as the order clearly wasn’t worth writing down. “Two Huntsman Platters,” he calls over his shoulder to the cooks.

As someone who loathes standing out, I feel a pang of multilayered meanings as several heads pop up from their sautéing and meat flipping to give us an appraising look.

They think we’re crazy.

The Huntsman is on the menu for the kind of people who are so bored with their lives they believe they have to eat things like kangaroo stomachs to be interesting.

But. He almost said his first no.

Baby steps. You’re a fire that is building up slowly, Chloe. You just have to turn up the heat in baby steps.

With monumental effort, I reach for the bravest part of myself and call out, “Actually, you know what?” Oh, I hate myself.

The server turns.

I avoid James’s gaze. Smile hugely. “I think I’m going to switch to the tomahawk after all. I’m chickening out. I just don’t know what that alligator will do to my stomach.” I turn to James. “You don’t mind, do you? If it’s all the same to you, I’ll be over here cheering you on as you eat through that ostrich. Is that okay? I’d love to see you try it.”

James, looking thoroughly stunned at this turn of events, seems to absorb it all in a matter of seconds and, with eyes darkening just a hint, finally says, “Yes. That fine. Great.”

Slight emphasis on great.

I beam. Staring him straight in the eyes.

There it is. The first sliver of his mask coming down. Isn’t it?

He hates me.

He’s pinned down by his own plan of saying yes and I’m going to push him past his limit.

Let the games truly begin.

Chapter 9