Page 58 of Getting Over You

I smirk. “Gigi, correct me if I’m wrong, but you just did. You said the words ‘you are the sexiest man who’s ever lived’.”

She gives my arm a shove. “Is this the part where you murder me? Finally?”

“The opposite,” I say. “Dinner.”

“Why did you ask me to wear a dress to take me to the Pizza Ice Cream Parlor?”

I sigh. “You think that’s where we’re going?”

Her gaze burns the side of my face. “Duh. Where else could you be taking me?”

“It’s a surprise,” I tell her, meeting those fiery eyes. “Just hold on.”

“Hold on?” she accuses. “You could be taking me anywhere.”

“Have I ever taken you somewhere you didn’t want to go?” She’s silent. “Why would I ask you to put on heels to take you for pizza? What kind of man do you think I am, princess?”

Gigi’s eyes roll. “The kind who doesn’t do this.” She gestures around. “Sorry for my confusion.” As we pull into the parking lot near the restaurant, she says, “The only place close is Merlot, Cade. Are we eating at Merlot?”

I wordlessly get out of the truck and meet her at her side, opening the door. “Come on,” I urge. “You’ll just have to see.”

Her lips part, brow furrowed as I help her from the truck and we begin the walk to the restaurant. “This is expensive,” she hisses. “Cade. You’re trying to start a business. This isn’t a business-savvy choice. I would know.”

“I’m sure you would. College teaches you a lot, huh?”

“You’re forgetting my mother is a horrid business owner,” she counters, smirking. “I’m learning by observing her mistakes.”

When we walk in, the lights are low, candlelight illuminating every table. “It’s busy,” Gigi whisper-yells. “Did you make a—”

“Reservation? Yes,” I whisper. “I did.”

I tell the hostess my name, and when she confirms the rooftop table, Gigi’s eyes nearly pop free from her skull. She’s silent until we’re seated at our private table, partitions of glass separating us from downtown Geddington Beach that lies below. She’s looking at the twinkling lights above our heads, grinning.

“I can’t believe you did this,” she whispers at the starry sky. “Why did you do this?” she says, louder.

“Because I want you to teach me how to take a girl on a nice date. We’ve got the carnival thing down, I’d say”—Gigi’scheeks redden at that—”but I need pointers on fine dining, schmoozing.”

She swallows. “Is that right?”

I nod. “That’s right. What do you say, princess? Dinner’s on me. You just need to show me how to wine and dine you.”

“I don’t think wining and diningmeshould be your concern,” Gigi mocks, but her cheeks are aflame, telling me all I need to know. “But I’ll be more than happy to give you pointers.”

I smile. “Wonderful. Where do we start? Wait. I think I know.” I look Gigi up and down, the black dress and velvety heels she’s wearing, her necklace sparkling in the light, her hair tucked securely in a bun. “You look stunning tonight.”

Gigi’s eyes twinkle. “I think black is your color,” she replies.

“Yours, too,” I reply thickly. She’s wearing the dress I recommended from our night at Murphy’s.

Gigi asks if we can get a bottle of wine. While I’m not a wine drinker, it seems as though wine is the preferred alcohol here, as I watch ice buckets and bottles get delivered again and again. I oblige Gigi, and after I awkwardly order a bottle and the waitress asks what type of wine, I freeze.

“Rosé,” Gigi tells the waitress. “Please.”

“House or top shelf?”

What does that mean? I thought that was a hard liquor thing.

Gigi’s eyes flick to me. Confidently, she replies, “House, please.”

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