Page 39 of Violent Hearts

Chapter 18

Ann

I feel horribly underdressed for the place he chooses to go. It's another five-star restaurant, very similar to the place where we met the first time. I don't feel comfortable in establishments like this. They're so overpriced, stiff, and luxurious in an obnoxious sort of way. How are you supposed to enjoy your minute portions of food when all you worry about is your appearance and manners?

"Usually I'm more of a pizza-on-the-couch kind of girl," I let him know after we've ordered our food.

He smirks at me and raises his glass of champagne to me in a toast before taking a sip from it.

"Delivery pizza, I imagine."

"Sometimes. But those are expensive. Frozen pizza can do the job, too," I say, winking at him. "But despite whatever you may think based on tonight, I'm actually a good cook!"

He laughs. "I have little reason to believe you, Button."

I reach for my own flute of champagne, a drink that I used to consider special to me, but it seems that we drink it almost every day. His eyes are glued to my every movement, observing me as if this was the first time he's ever laid eyes on me. I try to ignore his intense stare and sip at the delicious liquid. While I don't care much for the posh environment, I could really get used to drinking champagne on a regular basis. The taste is more exquisite than anything I've ever tasted before in my life.

Our appetizers are served, and we eat in silence for a few minutes, only commenting on the dishes before us. Everything is so beautiful to look at that it feels kind of wrong to eat it, even though the taste is as good or better than its appearance. I had been going to make pasta with a cream sauce and steamed vegetables, one of the few dishes I'm able to cook without a recipe. I may have exaggerated when I said that I was an excellent cook, but I usually don’t start fires. Regardless, this food is a thousand times better than what I would have cooked up.

I've ordered fish for my main dish, and find a chance to embarrass myself when the waiter comes by to ask me what wine I would like served with it. I like wine, but it's not like I've ever had the chance or the money to develop a palate for good wines. I usually bought whatever was the cheapest, as long as it's dry. So when the waiter lists off several options that supposedly would go well with my dish, I just give him a blank stare that Jared catches all too quickly.

"She'll go with the Puligny Montrachet," he steps in, helping me out of my misery, but making me feel like the smallest person on Earth at the same time.

I send him a quick glare to let him know how I feel about it, but I refrain from saying anything. The looks he gives me in return is enough for me to know that he knows how I felt about his input.

It helps that the wine he picked for me actually tastes great, and it does go well with the fish. Yet I can't get myself to admit it out loud. I don't want to compliment him and make him feel like it's okay to step on my toes like this. After all, I could've had my own idea about what kind of wine I wanted to order, right?

Our plates are cleared away, and then he decides to make another decision for me by ordering dessert.

"You'll have to enlighten me on the rules of all of this," I say, once the waiter is no longer within earshot. "This whole 'bending to your will'-thing, does it translate to me acting like a silenced housewife from the 1950s who has no opinion or can’t make choices of her own?"

He shakes his head and laughs.

"You're overanalyzing this, my little Button," he replies. "Why do you always assume the worst? Why so suspicious, when all I did was help you make a choice you were clearly having trouble with?"

"I-"

"You always sit on watch, waiting for someone who's trying to get you. Always trying to be one step ahead of the bad guys," he interrupts. "Is that why you're always so feisty when you're around me?"

I stare at him, dumbfounded and unsure how to respond. I don't even know where this is coming from. All I do know is that I've heard these words before. Brandon said something very similar about me shortly before I ended things with him. And there was another guy a few years back, a guy I had dated for almost an entire year, the longest relationship I ever had, who also said something along those lines. He called me "feisty" and constantly "on edge,” and “ready to burst at any moment.”

I shift awkwardly in my seat, unsure how to feel or what to think. I'm certain this is different, that Jared King is different. None of the other boys were anything like him. Yet they all came to the same conclusion about me.

And Jared doesn't even know me. We've only been living together for a couple of days.

"Hit too close to home there, didn't I?"

His voice rips into my inner monologue, forcing my mind back to the present.

"Maybe," I admit. "I'm sorry. I just don't like when you make dec-"

"I know you're uncomfortable with it," he interrupts me again. "But sometimes you'll just have to trust me."

"I also don't like being interrupted!"

He chuckles, and I think this is the first time that I notice the cute little dimple that appears on his left cheek every time he smiles like that.

"Granted. No one likes that," he says. "I guess you could call this my greatest weakness."

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