Page 20 of One Pucking Chance

“Okay, Bethy. Nice to meet you.” I keep my voice calm and smooth. “I’m Anna, and I would love a glass of water and a huge plate of calamari with ranch for dipping as soon as humanly possible. Thank you.”

“A calamari appetizer for the table sounds good,” my father approves.

“No.” I shake my head. “That’s just for me. Please order what you want.”

My words leave my father speechless, which I find comical.

“I’ll start with a gin and tonic and some fried mozzarella sticks if you have them. A menu would be great, too,” Simon says.

“Um…” Bethy looks down at the table. “We don’t have mozzarella sticks, but we do have breaded mozzarella di bufala.”

“What is that?” Simon asks.

“Well, it’s mozzarella di bufala,” she responds.

“So that’s like a type of mozzarella cheese?” Simon asks.

She nods.

“And it’s breaded?” he asks.

Bethy nods again.

“And it’s fried with like a side of marinara dipping sauce?” He looks expectantly at Bethy, pressing his lips in a line to suppress a smile.

“Y-yes,” she stutters.

“Great. I will start with that. Thank you so much, Bethy.” Simon gives her a charming smile, and she seems to stop trembling.

“It would be appreciated if you could bring me a bottle of this same wine.” My father points toward his wineglass.

Bethy nods and retreats to the kitchen.

“Oh. My. Word.” I press my hand to my mouth to halt the laughter that threatens.

“Whoa,” Simon agrees with a chuckle.

“Apparently, Cecilia needs to be more clear when she sets these things up,” my dad says of his secretary. “Why does our server seem so afraid? I’m at a loss for words.”

“Well, you are quite intimidating,” I tell him.

“Hardly.” He scoffs, his forehead wrinkling.

Thankfully, the cooks have their shit together because our appetizers are delivered promptly. I almost want to cry when I see the plate of calamari. I take a bite of the big ring, and I moan. The lightly breaded rings are thick and tender, and the ranch is perfect.

My father furrows his brows and frowns at Simon as if my behavior is somehow his fault. “What is going on here?”

Simon shrugs and suppresses a laugh. “I don’t know, sir.”

I inhale a dozen rings in a matter of seconds and start to feel like myself again. Now that my body has been supplied with some calories, and I can think again, I look at Simon’s plate of mozzarella sticks, and I start to laugh.

He notices me staring at his food and laughs along with me.

“Anna. What is happening?” My father’s face has morphed from one of anger to concern.

I wipe a happy tear from the corner of my eye. “They’re mozzarella sticks.”

“They’re mozzarella sticks,” Simon echoes my statement as he laughs along with me.

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