Page 32 of Make Me Yours

She laughs again and reaches down to swat my leg under the table. “Stop. Stop looking so pleased with yourself. I’m notobsessed with you or anything. I’m just a naturally curious person.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, biting my lip as our waiter approaches with the first course. “We’re about to put that to the test, Ms. Sullivan.”

Our server sets the appetizers down, refills our water glasses, and leaves with a quick, “Bon appétit,” that reminds me why I love French restaurants. I’d much rather have a server who’s politely disinterested than one of those waiters who hover over you the entire meal, asking how everything’s tasting.

“What is that?” Sully asks, eyeing the small cast-iron dish between us with suspicion. “It smells amazing, but…”

“But?” I prompt after a moment, reaching for her appetizer plate.

“But I read the menu. I saw the appetizers,” she says, the uncertainty in her gaze increasing as I slide a slice of toasted bread and two steaming hot escargots onto her plate. “There was nothing that sounded like anything I’d want to put in my mouth.”

“You’ll like this. They’re drenched in butter, white wine, and garlic.”

She hums beneath her breath as she takes the plate from me and lifts it closer to her face, examining the shining brown lumps beside the bread. “Okay, but whatarethey?”

“Snails,” I say, suppressing a laugh at the gagging sound that bursts from her lips. I slide two onto my own plate and collect a slice of bread. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” she says, setting her plate down in front of her, but making no move to reach for her fork. “I’m disturbed. Confused.” She studies the plate for another beat before adding in a softer voice, “Vaguely repulsed.”

“Oh, come on,” I say, sliding a perfectly cooked snail onto my bread. “If you’ve eaten a mussel or an oyster, you can eat asnail. They all come out of a shell, and from a visual standpoint, oysters are far more repulsive.”

“Yes, but they’re also fifty cents apiece at happy hour at the Marina Point Grill on Thursdays,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “And they never crawled through the dirt in my garden.”

“Dirt isn’t inherently dirty.”

“Garden dirt is,” she counters. “Gramps adds cow dung to ours as fertilizer.”

“Well, as I said before, anything you don’t care for, I’m happy to put on my plate. But I didn’t take you for a coward.”

She bristles as she sits up straighter. “I’m not a coward. I’m just…confused by snails on a plate.”

“Better than a bunny on a plate,” I remind her. “No small, fluffy creatures were harmed in the making of our meal. And some might say working through one’s confusion is an act of bravery, Sully.”

“Ugh. Yuck. Fine. You’re right. I may be many things, but I’m not a coward.” She reaches for her fork, mimicking the way I’ve slid a single snail onto the edge of my bread. When it’s ready, she lifts it to hover in front of her mouth. “On three? We go for it at the same time?”

“Sure,” I say, humoring her though I’ve had snails enough times to know these are going to be incredible.

“One, two…” She pulls in a breath, letting it out in a rush as she adds, “Three.”

We both bite down into crusty grilled bread and plump, perfectly seasoned snails.

She chews, her expression still tight with uncertainty, but after only a beat or two, the tension fades from her features.

“Oh, wow,” she says, her mouth still full. She chews for another moment, moaning softly as her eyes slide closed. “Wow.” She swallows and brings her napkin from her lap to her lips, sitting quietly for a moment.

“Good?”

Her eyes open. “I think I just had a food-induced orgasm,” she whispers, making me smile. Again.

And not just smile, but laugh and assure her, “There’s more where that came from. I ordered all the best things. Now try the pastry with pears and Gorgonzola. Quick, before it gets cold.”

“Bossy, bossy,” she mutters, but I can tell she doesn’t mind. She’s already loading a slice of the pastry onto her plate and warning me as I reach for another snail, “Leave me at least one more of those.”

“I’ll leave you two,” I assure her before adding in a whisper loud enough for her to hear, “Now who’s bossy?”

She laughs, her eyes crinkling in a way that makes it impossible not to return her grin. “It’s me. I’m super bossy. All the time. If we’re going to be hanging out, you’ll have to get used to it, Mr. Fancy.”

Oh, I could get used to it, all right. I could get used to a lot of things about this beautiful, vibrant woman.

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