Page 64 of The Fake Out Flex

"Well, if you're sure," I say casually.

"I'm sure. Now, go. Shoo." Levi starts waving us off. "Have a lovely, completely non-lovebirdy dinner."

"Would it be weird if I told you you look beautiful?" I say once we're seated in a private corner of the dimly lit restaurant with the scared-to-mispronounce name. I know one of the letters is silent, just not which one. Everyone keeps telling me something different. At this point, I'm wondering why they even bothered with a name at all.

Evie lowers the leatherbound menu, resting it against the edge of the table. "Depends."

"On?"

"What if I said yes? That it would be weird. Would you still say it?"

"Well, no."

"Why not?"

"Because I wouldn't want to make things awkward."

"Even if that means you aren't saying something that you want to say?"

"Um. I think I have a concussion."

Evie smiles warmly. "I'm just teasing. It wouldn't be weird. In fact, I've been wondering if you'd even noticed."

"Uh, yeah. I think I'd actually have a serious concussion not to notice you getting changed out of your dad's jersey into what I'm assuming is another seven-thousand-dollar dress. You're a knockout, Evie."

She laughs it off, but I'm not kidding. She looks stunning, dressed in a chic, form-fitting burgundy cocktail dress with a scalloped pattern around the neckline. Her hair is down, loosely flowing over her shoulders, and she's wearing just the right amount of makeup to highlight her beautiful features, her light freckles visible on her nose. Earrings sparkle from her ears, occasionally catching the light from the candle on the table.

"Not a seven-thousand-dollar dress, but thank you for noticing. And for the totally non-weird compliment. I'll take it."

"I like bantering with you," I say, lifting my menu.

"Same," she says. "Have you decided what you want?"

"Uh…"

To eat, bonehead. She means have you decided what you want to eat.

"Might go with the steak. You?"

"I'm having a hard time choosing something."

I fold my menu and place it on the table. "Let me guess. You want a burger?"

She looks across the table and treats me to an adorable smile/wrinkled-nose combo. "Is that bad?"

"Why would it be bad?"

"This place has a Michelin star, and I'm going to, what, ask for a double bacon burger with fries?"

"At least you know they'll be Michelin star fries."

"The chef will have a heart attack."

"The chef will do their job and give the customer what they want."

"If you say so."

The waiter arrives. He's young, looks bored, and has a trace of a French accent.

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