Page 36 of The Fake Date Deal

“I can taste it,” I said. “You’re right, though. It’s good.”

A waiter glided over and took our drink orders. I stuck with water. Eve got white wine.

“I read you’re like athletes.” Sean nodded at my glass. “Drivers, I mean. We should’ve asked you, are you on some special diet?”

Camille nudged him. “Don’t ask about his diet.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” I smiled, wide and anxious. I couldn’t let Eve’s parents bicker over me. “My diet’s just, you know, the Mediterranean diet. Like mamma makes, so this is all great.”

“Eve said you liked picnics.” Camille’s tone was soothing. “We thought you’d like tapas. Do you, do you cook?”

I nodded. “I do. Family tradition.”

Sean laughed. “That’s good, because Eve’s got, uh… what do you call a brown thumb, but for cooking?”

Eve scowled. “I do not.”

“She used to make us breakfast,” said Camille. “We have a house in the Hamptons, you know, and we’d go there in summer, and she’d get up early. She’d make us what she would call breakfast in bed, but she couldn’t work the oven, so it was all microwaved.”

“This sort of brown egg froth, burned to the plate.”

“Limp strips of bacon, swimming in grease.”

“Hot, soggy cereal. It tasted like glue.” Sean pulled a face. Eve waved him off.

“The part they’re not mentioning is, I was like five. I can boil an egg now, and scramble one too.”

“She’s no Julia Child.” Camille shook her head. “So, how did you two meet? Was it at that club?”

“The club, yeah.” I frowned. I didn’t want to talk about how I’d met Eve. What I wanted to do right now was defend her. I wished she had cooked for me even just once, so I could tell Sean and Camille it had been delicious. They were teasing, I knew, ribbing like any family, but couldn’t they see what had been happening? Little Eve had been trying, even back then, doing her damnedest to be their perfect daughter. “She’s a great dancer,” I said. “Incredibly graceful. I didn’t know who she was, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her.”

Camille looked surprised at that. I swallowed back anger. The only thing worse than parents with high expectations was parents with no expectations at all. Did they not see how awesome Eve was?

“She made me laugh, too,” I said. “When we started talking. She’s got this quick wit. I love that about her.”

Eve dropped her fork. She shot me a quick, startled glance. Had I come too close to saying I loved her?

“She’s always been funny, that’s true,” said Camille. “I thought she might be a writer, or something. That sort of dry, witty type, like Sinclair Lewis.”

I smiled. “I loved Main Street. And Arrowsmith.”

Sean lit up at that. “You’ve read Sinclair Lewis?”

“He loves American writers.” Eve sat forward. “He reads Cormac McCarthy before every race.”

Sean’s brows shot up. “Really? Have you read his last books yet?”

Camille rolled her eyes. “Oh, now you’ve done it.”

I wasn’t sure what was happening, but Eve pinched my leg. “Father minored in American lit when he was at Princeton. He loves Cormac, too, so you have something in common.”

I remembered I was supposed to be sucking up. Sean was eyeing me narrowly over his plate, like he wasn’t sure if I really liked Cormac McCarthy, or if Eve had just fed me his Wikipedia page. He speared a stalk of asparagus, still watching me.

“What do you enjoy most about his writing?”

I glanced at Eve, but she was no help. She was sipping her wine, her glass half-drained already. I’d just have to be honest and hope I didn’t sound stupid.

“His writing, uh… it has this sensual quality.” I did a vague gesture with my hands in the air. “I mean, the places he talks about, I’ve never been there. I’ve never seen Tennessee, or the Appalachian Mountains, or down south in Texas or Mexico. But the way he describes things, the, ah— the pictures he paints?—”

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