Page 110 of Call Me Sir

Jesus, he’s not with it. Little fears crop up in my mind. Is a date out in the public too much for him? Or did he get his ass handed to him by HR? Or could that happen if they somehow find out we’re dating?

Shit, my excitement is threatened.

“Cole?”

“Huh?”

The gentle pull upward on his lips is a relieving sight.

“I asked what made you choose this restaurant?”

The air has shifted again. I can’t keep up. Normally he’s calm. Or pissed. But tonight there’s something I can’t read.

Pushing away my anxieties, I remind myself that I just need to be myself. If we’re meant to fall in love and stay there, it will happen. Freaking myself out is a surefire way to get a trapeze trip into the sky and go crashing into the ground.

“Well,” I say, leaning back and giving him my dazzling smile, “When we first had dinner, you got me your favorite, chicken alfredo. I know you’re a fan of these little smaller places, but I wanted to take you somewhere nice.”

The smile on his face is so nice and easy. Ah, such a relief.

“That’s sweet of you.”

I smile back at him.

His hair has grown a little over the summer and little curls spread over his forehead slightly.

The white button up matches mine but he’s wearing a simple gold chain and navy blue dress pants. Thanks to me, he’s got the cutest little pink rose fastened to his shirt, matching mine.

Only for Sal will I wear the dark gray dress slacks I have on. I had to be a little more comfortable, wearing a light pink shirt that peaks a smidge from under my button up. I wonder if he hates it, but I think it’s cute, especially since it matches our roses.

We look good. And while I don’t want to do this too often, I’m glad we’re dressed as we are because when we let valet take his car away and walk in, I have the overwhelming sense I don’t belong.

We’re brought to our reserved table and are offered a drink menu that has to be purchased by the bottle.

I prepared for this, though I see Sal glancing at me with concern.

“Have you been here before?” He asks.

I shake my head. “Have you?”

He nods.

My heart sinks a little. “With your mom?”

His response is a half smile. “Once, she said it was too pretentious.”

The comfort he speaks of her eggs me on to ask more.

“So where did she prefer to eat?”

“She loved food that reminded her of home, so she would search for anywhere that had people from her home country.” He places the menu down and my enthusiasm for my plans damper. I failed.

“However,” he says, reaching across the little wooden table and grabbing my hand, “She preferred eating at home the best because she said that’s where the most important people are.”

There’s a tightening in my throat and I’m not sure why it gets me, but the urge to leave and go cook him dinner myself almost makes me get up.

The waiter comes back and Sal pulls his hand from mine.

I don’t bother to look at the menu because I only know two options, thanks to Google. “We’ll have your best bottle of Beaujolais.”

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