Page 87 of Wingwoman
Sliver was right. The piece of meat was shaved so thin, it was almost translucent.
The server turned to walk away, but Hope stopped her. “Excuse me.” I’d half expected her to ask for a red wine pairing, but instead she said, “I think there’s been a mistake. We haven’t ordered yet. We actually haven’t even seen the menu.”
The server blinked, surprised. “Oh, Ms. Marcoux-Evans, I apologize. When Mr. Gabriel placed the reservation, he specified our pre-fixe tasting menu for tonight. It’s how Chef DeLongue recommends you experience his food. However, if you prefer to take a look at our regular menu, I’m more than happy to bring it for you.”
The server’s tone and words were pleasant enough… they should be, considering how much this place costs.
Hope merely smiled politely and shook her head. “Oh. I didn’t realize that. The tasting menu is great, thank you.”
After the server walked away, Hope turned her polite smile to me. It was such a stark difference from the smile I had just seen when we were talking scarves. “Sorry about that,” she said. “I didn’t realize you’d already set up the menu for us. This looks great.”
The corners of her smile wobbled. I noted the way her nostrils flared slightly and how she nibbled the inside corner of her lip. Dropping her gaze to the plate, she pushed the tiny bit of food around.
She was lying. And moreover, she was bad at it. This girl should never play poker. The nostrils and cheek nibble were totally blaring tells.
I noted it for later.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, genuinely wanting to know.
“Nothing!” Her voice was a little too sharp. A little toofauxhappy. Especially for a girl like Hope.
She was a cool-headed woman who had fun and pleasures like anyone else, but she didn’t strike me as the kind of girl who would jump up and down and squeal with delight when something pleased her.
Although, that was now my new goal.
Get Hope to squeal in delight.
Then again, if Prada, Hermès, and Louboutin couldn’t make her squeal, I wasn’t sure what could.
“I’m happy to be here, trying one of your favorite restaurants,” she said. And this time, her lie was far more believable. Except for that little twist of her lips that told me she was chewing the inside of her cheek again.
One of my favorite restaurants? What made her think that?
I shook my head. “Thisisn’tone of my favorite restaurants,” I admitted, though I had the good sense to drop my voice to a whisper.
Rumor had it, Chef DeLongue was known to be temperamental. This was not the place to send your food back… even as a celebrity. “Honestly, I thought you would like it and it would be a nice place to have our first date.”
She leveled me with a look. “This isnota date.”
I stopped short from rolling my eyes. No matter what, I didn’t want someone to catch me in a moment of exasperation on the night we were supposed to be teasing this relationship to the public.
Instead, I reached across the table, draping my hand over hers. “My point is, this place is one of the nicest in Austin. Which I thought was what you’d want. But if you don’t like it, speak up now and we can go somewhere else. I don’t want you to have to eat food you don’t like.”
I meant it, too. I could admit this place had great flavors, but it was pretentious as hell. Either I took a bite and was left craving more of something delicious I could never get more of. Or I took a bite and wondered just one question:Why?
She shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable. “Okay, fine. Here it goes. I hate tapas places and small plates,” she hissed. “I know they’re trendy and I’m supposed to love them, but I just want a full damn meal, you know? Like… if I want a burger, then I want to have a burger.” She held up her hands, indicating an invisible burger that, if real, would have been bigger than her head. “Not some dainty deconstructed slider with croutons sprinkled on top in place of a bun.”
A laugh barked out of me and I covered my mouth with my palm to smother the sound.
It was too late. Several other diners shot me dirty looks. How dare I have an emotion at a decimal level above zero while they enjoyed their sliver of a single almond.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “I’m not laughingatyou, I swear. I’m laughing because it’s so true.”
My stomach growled as I shoved the single bite of pork belly and small spoon of grits into my mouth. “Tell you what,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Consider this whole tasting course the appetizer to our real dinner… coming later.”
Her dark brow arched as she brought the spoon to her mouth. “Real dinner?”
I grinned. “That’s right.”
