Page 32 of His Naughty Girl

Without my even being fully conscious of it, half my brain started to work on ways to derail the date. My rising affection for Dylan felt terribly dangerous. Together, his quiet, confident dominance and my apparent Stockholm syndrome for the crazy New Modesty culture seemed like a recipe for disaster.

But as our delicious meal proceeded, the sheer pleasantness of the occasion—my handsome date, the romantic restaurant, the contented other couples, all older, who sat at the nearby tables—kept making me delay the moment when I made sure Dylan wouldn’t want a second date. I found myself asking for more details about the robofarm, and growing even more interested at the way Dylan answered, making the minutiae of automated agriculture seem exciting.

“You should have been a teacher,” I told him, suddenly, before I could stop myself.

Dylan smiled, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Nah,” he said. “I’d miss being outdoors. But I don’t mind teaching people. If they’re as beautiful as you are, anyway, Andrea.”

CHAPTER 16

Andrea

The surge of affection in my chest turned the unease in my head into a flashing red warning light. As the date continued, a nagging voice in the back of my mind kept insisting that I needed to do something to sabotage things with Dylan. The intensity of my growing feelings for him terrified me. Getting too attached would only lead to more pain and humiliation in this strange new world I found myself in.

But every time I considered saying or doing something to push Dylan away, I found myself captivated by his warm smile or drawn in by another fascinating story about his work on the robofarm. Our conversation flowed so naturally, punctuated by shared laughter and lingering gazes.

When the waiter arrived with the appetizer, my eyes widened at the beautiful array of Italian delicacies artfully arranged on the platter.

“This is an antipasto,” Dylan explained, gesturing at the colorful assortment. “It’s a traditional Italian first course.”

I savored each new flavor and texture—the saltiness of prosciutto, the creaminess of fresh mozzarella, the tang of marinated artichokes. I couldn’t help the little sounds of pleasure that escaped my lips as I tasted each morsel.

“Oh, try this one,” Dylan said, spearing an olive stuffed with some kind of cheese and holding it out to me.

Without thinking, I leaned forward and took the offered bite directly from Dylan’s fork. As the burst of flavors hit my tongue, our eyes met and held. The intimacy of the moment sent a shiver down my spine.

I knew—I thought I knew, anyway, or some part of me knew—I had to say something cutting or offensive to ruin the mood. But the words wouldn’t come. How could I bring myself to hurt this kind, attentive man who seemed to treat me with such care and respect?

As we finished the antipasto, Dylan regaled me with more stories about automated farming. I found myself fascinated by the way he described the technology, how it seemed to come from a sci-fi story from a different world, a universe of abundance, where humans had solved all the problems our civilization seemed to face. I peppered him with questions, genuinely curious to learn more.

“You know, I’d love to show you around the farm sometime,” Dylan said, his eyes lighting up. “If you’re interested, of course.”

“Really? I’d like that,” I replied, forgetting for a moment that I wasn’t supposed to encourage future plans.

When our entrees arrived, I stared in frank wonder at the rich, savory-smelling dish the waiter placed in front of me. When I pushed my fork into it, the meat was so tender it practically felloff the big bone in its center. Then I tried the porridge-y stuff under it and I practically fainted at the richness of the taste.

“This isosso buco,” Dylan explained. “It’s a classic, I guess. I don’t know a ton about cooking, but I know what I like.”

I took a tentative bite of the meat and let out an involuntary moan of pleasure. “Oh, my god, this is incredible,” I exclaimed. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

Dylan beamed at my enthusiasm. “I’m so glad you like it. Even folks who have been to Italy say this place does an amazingosso buco.”

I savored another bite of the tender meat, relishing the complex flavors. “This is seriously the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted,” I said, forgetting all about the need to push Dylan away. “Where does the restaurant get such amazing ingredients?”

Dylan’s face lit up with pride. “Actually, the veal comes from a farm in the next town over.”

My fork clattered against the plate as I dropped it in shock. “Veal?” I whispered, my eyes wide. “This is… veal?”

Dylan’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Yes. I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s the way the Italians make it, too.”

I pushed my plate away, feeling suddenly nauseous. “I can’t eat this,” I said, my voice trembling. “I didn’t realize it was veal. I don’t eat veal.”

Dylan’s expression softened with understanding. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Andrea. I should have mentioned that. But I promise this veal is raised humanely. The farm has incredibly high standards for animal welfare.”

“Humanely raised?” I scoffed, my voice rising. “There’s no such thing as humane veal! Those poor baby cows are torn from their mothers and?—”

“Andrea, please,” Dylan said gently, reaching across the table to touch my hand. “I understand if you don’t want to eat it. That’s completely your choice and I respect that. I’m truly sorry for not mentioning it earlier.”

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