Page 83 of Raise Hell

“You come here a lot?” I murmur.

“Not really.” He pulls out a chair, doing a decent job of acting the gentleman. “Enough to know it’s good.”

“That girl up front acted like she knew you.”

He shrugs. “A lot of people know me.”

Because it’s normal to just take a table at a restaurant without waiting to be seated.

A waitress comes by with menus and a warm smile that is solely for Drake’s benefit, because she barely looks at me. Her hand rests on his upper arm as she describes the specials.

He waves her away without looking up from the menu. “Give us a minute.”

She casts an annoyed look in my direction, but I just give her a wide smile.

I remind myself that him not flirting with the waitress isn’t actually flattering.

Drake and I are playing a game. I should have known we would be evenly matched.

Flirting with our waitress in front of me isn’t going to get him what he wants.

“I hope you’re buying,” I say, flipping my menu. “I forgot to bring my wallet.”

That’s as good a reason as any for why I don’t have any money.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t worry. It’s my treat.”

“It should be. I’ve never had South African food, and I might hate it.”

“You won’t.” He tosses the menu down. “What are you drinking?”

“I don’t know. Do they have cream soda?”

Drake casts me a droll look. “They have a Syrah from Cederberg that is excellent.”

He doesn’t come here very often, but he has the liquor menu memorized

“Sounds great.”

“You’d probably like the Durban chicken curry. Or the boerewors. It’s sort of the house specialty.”

I try to repeat the word, but just stumble over it. “Boar or wurst?”

“Boerewors,” he repeats slowly, though I don’t hear anything different from what I said. “It’s a sausage made with beef, pork, and lamb.”

“I honestly didn’t realize South African food was its own thing.”

“This might be news to you, but people eat all over the world. Pretty much every country has something unique about their cuisine.” His tone is censuring. “There’s a shitty Italian place a few doors down, if you’d rather go there.”

“Sounds like I might have hit a nerve.” I take a sip from the glass of water beside me. “People must give you a lot of shit for you to be this sensitive. Let me guess, your friends have a distinct preference for burgers and French fries over curry chicken and unpronounceable sausage.”

The defensiveness that flashes in his eyes is real, even as he tries to hide it. “I’ve never brought anyone here.”

A flash of heat moves through my chest. “Because none of them would appreciate it?”

His lips thin. “Maybe.”

“But you thought I would?”

---