Page 44 of The Ruse of Romancing
I waited until we were both out of the car and walking to the restaurant before continuing our conversation.
“No, I don’t know what ‘same old, same old’ means for you. You told me you’re a graphic designer, so what do you design?” I asked, wanting to know everything I possibly could about this man.
“I design a little bit of everything. The joy and challenge of being a freelance designer is that I can take on any project I want, but it also means I have to attract enough business to earn a livable wage,” he said as he held the door open for me.
The restaurant was a seafood place near the beach with views of the ocean. It was nautical themed with tables that had been artfully aged to make them look vintage and worn. On the walls were photos of the ocean intermixed with sailing paraphernalia. It was cozy and quaint, though I hoped it served more than just seafood. I was not a seafood fan.
“That’s a lot of pressure,” I said as we were shown to our table, empathizing with Allen’s struggle to support himself with his creativity.
The waiter handed us both laminated menus and deposited a basket of breadsticks on the table, promising to be back shortly to take our drink orders.
“A pressure you understand,” Allen said, giving my hand a gentle squeeze where it rested on the table. The quick, compassionate movement sent sparks dancing down my spine and made me wish his hand had lingered.
“The joys of using our art to support ourselves,” I said, feeling a blush suffuse my cheeks at his attention.
Needing a distraction, I glanced down at the menu. Most of the food involved some form of seafood, though I was relieved to see a few chicken options.
“I’ve heard amazing things about their clam chowder,” Allen said, following my lead and reviewing his own menu.
I had to fight the urge to gag, but some of what I was thinking must have shown on my face.
“Not a clam chowder fan?”
I shook my head.
“That is a tragedy! I don’t know if you can visit Oregon if you’re not going to enjoy a bowl of clam chowder.”
I ducked my head behind my menu, not sure if I wanted to see his reaction to what I had to say next.
“It’s not just clam chowder,” I said slowly. “It’s all seafood, if that makes you feel better.”
The strangled noise Allen made had me looking up in concern, half expecting to find him choking on a breadstick. Instead, he was staring at me like I’d just declared the earth was flat.
“You don’t like seafood?” He asked slowly, each word a staccato beat contrasting with the steady flow of conversation of the diners around us. “I don’t think we can be friends.”
“That’s going to make dinner together really awkward, but I guess I can stop talking to you immediately, really lean into this new dynamic.” I quipped, trying to fight back a laugh at how truly appalled he sounded at my food preferences.
“I think it might be for the best,” he said, glancing around as if looking for a waiter. “I probably need to ask for separate tables as well.”
We both burst out laughing at the absurd suggestion.
“Well, now I feel bad. If I would have known, I would have suggested a different restaurant,” Allen said, setting down his menu.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, resting a hand on his. “Thankfully, I’m a big chicken fan.”
The rest of the meal passed quickly, our conversation easy and natural. My chicken fettucine proved delicious, and I even agreed to try a bite of Allen’s shrimp scampi, which wasn’t bad,though I definitely wouldn’t be ordering it for myself any time soon.
We finished our food, and Allen, mentioning he didn’t want the evening to end, suggested we visit an ice cream place a couple of blocks away and I happily agreed to extending our date.
As we stood to leave, I dropped my phone. I bent to retrieve the device, the seams of my dress pulling tight along the side. Not thinking anything of the pressure, I stretched to grab my phone from where it sat under the table. The seams gave a tug and then suddenly released, a popping sound accompanying the change, and I froze.
My vintage, well-loved dress had shown its age, the seam along my right side popping. Based on the air flow I was feeling, I was guessing the hole was currently revealing several inches of skin that likely included a nice view of my very practical, slightly discolored bra.
Grabbing my phone, I quickly straightened, plastering my arm to my side to try to hide the damage. Maybe no one would notice.
“Everything okay?” Allen asked, his eyes wide. He had clearly noticed.
My face turned bright red, and I looked around, trying to find some way to cover up my wardrobe mishap. I had never wished for a jacket more than I did now, fashion be danged.
