Page 46 of The Invitation
“Nothing,” I say, bringing my gaze to his. “I’ve just never eaten at a restaurant where one meal will be easily over one hundred dollars. Seems rather excessive.”
“It’s a little fancier than string cheese and cookie butter, huh?”
I laugh. “A bit.”
Vernon returns with our drinks. “Are you ready to place your order, or do you need more time?”
I stare at the dinner options, none of which include cookie butter, and start to panic. The steaks have a location beneath them, which I don’t understand. I’m fairly certain one of the appetizers is a whale and I’m not sure of the legality of that. There are duck tacos, which I didn’t know was a thing, and so many variations of butter you can order on the side that I don’t know where to start.
Where are the bacon cheeseburgers?
My palms begin to sweat.
“Would you like me to order for you?” Ripley asks softly.
My smile is wobbly as relief washes over me. Ordering food I’m not familiar with and food that’s this expensive makes me self-conscious. I want to do it myself, but the longer I fumble with this decision, the goofier I’m going to look. That would be worse than letting him have this small victory by looking like a gentleman.
Surely, he’ll choose something I like, right?
“That would be nice,” I say. “Thank you.”
He returns my smile and then turns to Vernon. “We’ll have an artisanal cheese board as a starter. Georgia would like an iceberg wedge, please hold the tomato, and an eight-ounce filet cooked medium and an order of truffle fries. I’ll have the wedge salad, roasted chicken with pistachio gremolata, and potato gratin.”
“Excellent choices, sir,” Vernon says. “I shall return.”
He takes the menus and leaves.
“I’m not sure if you have a personal vendetta against tomatoes on salads, but I do, so thank you,” I say, my face flushing.
He furrows his brow. “You never eat tomatoes.”
“You can’t know that about me,” I say through a fake smile. “We just met. Remember?”How do you know that anyway?
“Fuck.” He looks at Greg. “I …”
Greg pops his head around the camera. “We’ll edit it out. Keep going.”
Ripley nods and, for once, I think he senses that he’s a mere mortal.Ha.
“So no porn, meal prep, or cleaning hacks,” he says, as if he’s actually interested. “Tell me something about you—something real.”
I think you’re a pretty good actor. But you haven’t seen anything yet.
“Let’s see …” I try to think of something that will get a reaction. “Okay. I applied for a weatherwoman job last week.”
Ripley knows I don’t have a meteorology degree—but he can’t say that, so his reaction is perfect. “What?”
“I’m really hoping I get it. I have a knack for predicting the weather.”
He chuckles. “I’m glad to hear that, although I think the weather is more of a science than a guessing game.”
“Then we don’t watch the same weather reports.”
He shakes his head, holding back a comment. If there wasn’t a camera in our faces, God knows what he’d say. But there is. That means he has to behave.
I’m starting to like this.Now, let’s level it up.
“I really think it’s hard to believe you’re single,” I say, fluttering my lashes. “Why is a man like you on a reality show looking for a date?”
