Page 92 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
“Did he at least win you the stuffed animal?”
“He kept it for himself.”
Christian was laughing so hard his guffaw caught the attention of other diners. “That’s terrible.”
“I suppose you’ve never had a terrible date then?”
He thought for a moment, taking a sip of his wine then clearing his throat. “In law school, I took this woman to the most expensive restaurant in town, ordered seafood for both of us without asking what she wanted, and realized far too late once the food had arrived, that she was allergic to shellfish.”
I whistled. “That is tragic.”
“Tell me about it.”
We ordered and ate dinner and talked about everything—his brothers, my parents, college stories, and work disasters. It felt like I had gotten to know these people throughout our time together without actually ever knowing them.
“I’d love to meet your brothers one day.”
That must have surprised him because his brows rose along with a smile.
“I’d love for you to meet them. Is anytime too soon?”
“Not anymore. I mean, you’ve mentioned them from the moment we met so it feels like I already know them.”
He nodded. “I’ll plan a dinner. How’s that?”
“Are you cooking?”
He laughed. “You like when I cook for you, huh?”
“Absolutely. But you know that, don’t you?”
He bit his lip. “I might’ve had an idea.”
“I’m sure you did. I only devoured everything you put on my plate.”
He guffawed and I enjoyed our banter. Outside, a storm was brewing.
“The rain’s getting worse,” Christian said, glancing out the window as Tony brought our check.
I followed his gaze. What had been a light drizzle when we’d arrived was now a steady downpour, sheets of water ran down the restaurant’s windows.
“I should have checked the weather,” Christian said, pulling out his wallet.
Tony appeared at our table with an umbrella. “For the beautiful couple. The rain should stop soon.”
“Thank you,” Christian said, signing the check.
We stood at the restaurant’s entrance, watching the rain come down in torrents. The umbrella Tony had given us was tiny, barely big enough for one person, let alone two.
“Ready to make a run for it?” Christian asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
He opened the umbrella, and we stepped out into the storm. Within seconds, we were both soaked. The umbrella was useless against the wind-driven rain, and by the time we reached the car, we were laughing like children, drenched to the skin.
Christian fumbled with his keys as I pressed against him under the inadequate shelter of the umbrella. We were both giggling at the absurdity of it all.
“This is not how I planned for tonight to go,” he said, getting the door unlocked.
