Page 92 of Demon Kissed
As we move towards the elevator to descend down to the lobby, I swear I feel eyes on the back of my head. But when I turn, heart racing, the hallway is empty.
* * *
William reserveda table at a fancy Italian restaurant located in the downtown district. It’s only a two-minute walk from the hotel, so we didn’t need to worry about hitching a ride with the demons. You know, the men I kissed passionately just a couple days before.Thosedemons.
When we arrive, the gorgeous brunette hostess takes us to a table near the center of the room, complete with a white tablecloth, candles, and cloth napkins. Honestly, this might make me sound basic as fuck, but I judge a restaurant on whether or not they have real napkins or cloth ones.
“Can I get you guys something to drink to start off?” she asks.
“Pepsi,” William answers before I can.
“Just a water for me, thanks.”
She nods before handing us our menus, explaining the dinner specials, and promising to get our drinks right away. When she leaves, William immediately grabs his menu, a tiny smirk playing at his lips.
“You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“Huh?” I glance down at my own menu, my eyes practically bugging out of my head like some sort of demented cartoon when I see the prices. Thirty dollars for a plate of pasta? Hell to the no.
“You know…” He waves a hand in my direction, still not glancing up from his menu. “I mean, you can eat and drink what you want. I won’t judge you or anything. You don’t need to get a salad and water to please me.”
“Oh.” My cheeks flame as I idly trail my finger up and down the laminated menu. “I was just in the mood for water, I guess,” I say with a sheepish shrug.
“Oh.”
Silence engulfs our table as our waitress returns with our drink orders.
“Thank you,” I say immediately, wrapping my hand around the cold glass. William hesitates when he takes his soda, staring suspiciously at the cup as if it has somehow personally offended him.
“This isn’t diet, is it, sweetheart?” he questions. “Because I don’t drink diet.”
“It’s regular,” she assures him, but his lips still pucker together like he’s eaten something sour. Maintaining eye contact with the waitress, he brings it to his lips and takes a tiny sip. He claps his lips together in contemplation before he nods once.
“You’re right. My apologies.”
Plastering on a rather fake smile, she says, “Are you guys ready to order?”
William smiles charmingly at me before focusing once more on the waitress. “We’ll both take an order of the Italian Pasta Alla Checca,” he declares, grabbing my menu from my hands and extending both of them to the woman. “One tab, please.” He flashes me another disarming smile as the waitress hurries away to put our orders in.
“The Italian Pasta Alla Checca?” I say with a nervous laugh. “I didn’t even see it on the menu.”
“Trust me. You’ll love it,” he assures me with a wink.
“Oh. Great. Thanks.”
Awkward silence ensues as William continues smirking at me like the cat with the cream—or is it the cream with the cat?—and I shift on the chair. When our waitress returns with a basket of bread, I’m grateful for something to do with my hands, practically shoving a stick into my mouth while William’s nose scrunches with disgust.
“You don’t like bread?” I ask around my first bite.
William purses his lips. “It’s a lot of carbs to have with pasta,” he explains, and I instantly feel stupid for devouring one in the first place.
You’re on a date, Katrina. Have some fucking class!
I tentatively place my breadstick on the edge of my plate and clasp my hands together.
“So…”
“So…”
