Page 9 of Loaded

I stare at her for a moment, wondering what she’s thinking, and then I nod and look down at my food. I cut the cheese into a smaller piece and spear a slice of prosciutto, making sure to get some arugula and the balsamic. When I pop it in my mouth, I don’t expect much. At the end of the day, prosciutto’s really just ham in a tux.

But this is. . .more.The pickled onion, the hint of seared squash, and the tang of cider—together with the balsamic—the flavors are amplified in a way I didn’t expect. I scoop up a second little blob more slowly, and when I pop it in my mouth, I savor it, closing my eyes, inhaling slowly.

When I finally open my eyes, Bea’s smiling. “Told you.”

“How did you—why’d you pick this?”

She shrugs. “I was right, though.”

“It was phenomenal,” I admit. “But now you have to tell me why you picked lobster for Miss Collagen USA.” Which has to be the funniest nickname I’ve ever heard of someone giving a person they’ve barely met.

Bea purses her already full lips, and I want to reach out and brush my thumb against them.

Because apparently I’m insane around her.

She sighs, like she’s decided something, and then she says, “I’m not proud of it, but I chose them because she said she liked seafood, and I know they’re made with flour, so I thought she might still eat them in spite of that.” Her lip’s twitching. “I’m a jerk, but she said it wasn’t an allergy, so I won’t apologize for it.”

This time, I’m the one laughing. “It’s too bad she didn’t get a chance to bloat,” I say.

“Her faceisworth a lot of money,” Bea says. “I guess I’m kind of a bad person.” She spins around on her heel and disappears.

I should probably pay and leave, but even the Hulk couldn’t drag me out of this restaurant. I know it’s not a date anymore, but itfeelsmore like a date now than it did with my date sitting across from me.

Like a creeper, I pretend to be on my phone, but really I watch Bea take care of her other tables. She’s so small that watching her carry big trays is, well, it’s surprising somehow. She acts like a tray with four or five plates on it weighs nothing, setting it effortlessly on the small stand she whips out with her free hand.

It’s not very long before Bea returns with two plates for me. “I’d already put in the order.” She bites her lip.

I swear, if I wasn’t sure she’s not some crazy vixen, I’d assume she was pursing and biting her lips just to draw attention to them. They look like what Chaliesah clearly wanted hers to look when she had all that collagen put in.

Large. Plump. And currently? Being bitten by very white teeth.

One of which is just a tiny bit crooked. The one just to the left of her front two teeth is angled just a hair, and I love it.

“No?”

Shoot. She asked me something.

“No?” I repeat her question like a moron.

A tiny smile curves at the edge of her mouth. “You don’t want freshly ground pepper? Right?”

Yes. The food. Because that’s her job.

I glance down for the first time to see what she brought. “A burger?” I can’t help my surprise.

“For your date, I brought the sweet Melissa Surf and Turf—crab leg, a six-ounce filet, butterflied, with chili butter. It’s got a very subtle zing that only the most discerning palate will catch.”

“So she’d be sure to miss it.” I point at my burger. “But explain this.”

“Try it first.” She folds her arms across her chest.

I want to argue, but she’s channeling a pretty impressive amount of third-grade teacher, so I duck my head, pick up the burger, and take a dutiful bite.

Like the prosciutto, this is an explosion of several flavors that I do not expect. Burgers at steakhouses usually have a thick, juicy patty, often flavored with a lot of salt and strange seasonings.

This is nothing like that.

Instead, it tastes like maybe two or three very thin, very crispy patties. They’re almostlacyon the sides, and they’re seasoned only by salt, unless I’m wrong. Anything more would fight with the strangely sharp gouda cheese that’s not quite melted, the crisp red onions that were clearly marinated in something tangy, and some kind of sauce I can’t place.

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