Page 19 of Peaches

CHAPTEREIGHT

OLIVIA

Roasted Chicken Au Poivre

Duck Confit

Wood-Fired Filet

Stuffed Pork Chop

My mouth waters as I read through the entrees listed on the menu—I’ve never in my life eaten at a place like this. “Are you sure this isn’t too much?” I ask, my gaze rising to meet Rhett’s.

His brows dip. “What do you mean?”

I look back at the menu. “This pork chop is almost fifty dollars.”

Rhett’s expression is wicked. “Don’t insult me, peaches. Or my wallet. Order whatever the hell you want.”

He sounds miffed, and it sends a thrill through me. Something about his gruff communication paired with the clear effort he’s putting toward our date is . . . well, it makes about as much sense as him having this idea in the first place. “I should have changed,” I mutter to myself.

“Why?”

“I’m wildly underdressed. I’m pretty sure that woman over there is wearing a fur coat.”

Rhett’s eyes widen as he turns around. “Fuckin’ yuppies,” he curses.

“Are you against her fashion choice?”

He sighs. “I don't have a problem with animal consumption, or maybe even the use of their hides in a primitive survival sense. But to skin a mink or chinchilla or a fuckin’foxin the name of high fashion is where I draw the line.”

I can’t help but let out a surprised laugh. I’m not sure if it’s his defense of animals—although, the way his cheeks flush pink with frustration is something I like very much—or that he isn’t afraid to speak his mind, but it’s refreshing to be around someone sohonest.

Our server comes—a middle-aged man with graying hair and a polite seriousness about the process of ordering—and Rhett asks for the filet. I order the pork chop and a glass of wine, handing our menus to the server before he leaves us.

“So,” I say, suddenly nervous that it’s just Rhett and me now that the food’s been handled.

He leans back in his chair and looks at me with a thoughtful gaze. “So,” he parrots.

“Tell me about yourself.”

He rolls his eyes. “Olivia?—”

“This is our first date, right?” I’m not sure where I got the bravery to interrupt Rhett Bennett, but it’s stillbeyondme that we’re sitting here together, that he actually asked me to do this.

His eyes spark with something dark—there and gone in a flash. “Yeah.”

I shrug. “I want the full experience. Tell me something you’d say to a girl on a first date.”

He smirks. “‘Your place or mine?’”

I throw my napkin at him. “You skeeve!”

His laugh is beautiful and open. I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him do it. “I don’t date,” he says simply.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’m not sure any of my . . .interactionswith women . . . would be considered real dates.”

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