Page 83 of Resisting the Grump

Oliver poured the last of the wine into our glasses, and I took it as a cue to start considering my exit plan. As much as my body from the neck down wanted to stay, my mind was determined to make sure I walked out with my dignity intact.

I glanced at the clock. Then down at Simba. He was studying me so intensely I felt like the subject of a life-drawing class. “I don’t think Simba likes me.”

“If that’s true, it’s my fault,” Oliver said. “He knows too much.”

“Is that so?”

Oliver nodded and cleared my dessert plate, which was a relief since I’d been fighting the urge to lick it clean. Who could think about dignity when dark chocolate was within reach?!

“What exactly did you tell him?” I asked, squinting at Simba.

“I didn’t have to tell him anything,” Oliver said with a shrug. “He was here when I first started torturing you for sport and here when I started torturing myself for lying to you.”

If Simba’s steely green gaze was anything to go by, he wouldn’t be spilling his secrets anytime soon.

“I suppose I might’ve let it slip that you’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.”

I bit the inside of my lip.

“But he won’t agree until he associates you with getting fed.” He leaned down to drop another lump of lobster into Simba’s bowl, and his four-legged companion hurried over to make it disappear. “You want to learn how to break into a lobster?”

“Now?”

“Should be a breeze compared to the puzzle box.”

I wondered if he suspected I had help. If he did, he wasn’t letting on. I drank the last sip of wine in my glass and wandered around the counter.

He showed me how to break up the lobster one section at a time, starting with the claws. I was pleasantly surprised by his patient instruction, the lack of mansplaining, and how much he appreciated my interest. Then again, his dad had probably been giving him impromptu cooking tutorials his whole life. So it made sense that he’d be excited to share his knowledge, along with a side of himself the cameras never bothered to capture.

We took turns washing our hands, and when he offered me a fresh tea towel, I felt a hard pinch in my chest. It grounded me in the present moment and made me aware of what I had in front of me. Aware of what I had to lose.

“There’s only one more step,” he said, tilting his head towards the pile of lobster meat on the cutting board.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to keep me here a while longer. I watched him pull a covered bowl from the fridge. “What’s that?”

“This is my secret weapon.” He chucked the lobster chunks in a bowl and began adding heaping spoonfuls of the golden sauce.

“What does it do?”

“It makes you miss me.”

My heart swelled.

“It hasn’t been tested yet, obviously. But when you’re ruminating on whether you want to make a real go of this tomorrow, please take your delicious lobster lunch into consideration. Because you aren’t going to find anyone on Tinder who makes Michelin-quality mayo like I do.

“It does look good,” I said, watching him stir the mixture. “If it’s mayo, why is it orange?”

“Because it’s spicy.”

My mouth watered. How was that even possible after the feast we just had?! Madness.

He filled a square Tupperware container and put it in a paper bag with two small rolls.

“What about the rest of it?” I joked.

“Simba and I will worry about that.”

With my goody bag ready, it seemed like the right time to make my exit. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”

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