Page 39 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
I open a door at random and find myself in the dining room. To my surprise, the table is laid for two, but piled high with sufficient for twenty. I lift a few silver covers. There's everything here: cold and hot meats, fish, eggs, potatoes done at least five different ways, vegetables of all types and colors and sizes, all piled high in dish after dish. A variety of breads, from French baguettes to Italian paninis and even crackers, with a whole array of cheeses from all over the world. Fruit overflows from huge bowls. Don't even get me started on the range of desserts.
"Grayson?" I call out, and no one responds. My stomach rumbles. I haven't eaten much today, and that lobster smells divine.
But he's not here. Should I wait for him or not?
I try calling him on the phone, but the line is busy. Oh well.
Might as well get started. It's not like we have to eat together or anything. Having our meals together is definitely not part of the contract, and if he's here, he's highly likely to say or do something to make me lose my appetite. Better off without him.
I take a plate, grabbing lobster, garlic bread, caviar, and a variety of vegetables, some of which I'm not even sure of the names of, and choose a seat.
The first bite of the food has me practically moaning. God, that's heavenly. I chew blissfully, and then the next bite has me closing my eyes too, so I can savor the meal completely.
Purely divine.
I don't know who the chef is, but I owe him a big fat kiss after this. Whatever he's getting paid, they need to double it. This is incredible.
I'm halfway through before I think about what I'm doing. Suddenly I feel like Goldilocks in the children's fairytale. An intruder in someone else's home. I really should have asked before I just started in. Maybe this isn't even for us at all. Perhaps he's invited friends around this evening.
In any case, where the hell is he?
I tiptoe to the door and glance up and down the hall. Empty. I call his name. "Grayson?" Nothing. It doesn't seem like anyone else is here at all, but he must be somewhere. This place is huge. Unnervingly so. Maybe I should wait for him to come out from wherever he is, so he doesn't have to eat alone.
He may very well not care, but just in case...
I reluctantly put down the fork that I'd picked back up and fold my hands in my lap.
Where is he anyway? Who's he talking to?
Is there a work emergency, or is he feeling awkward, like I am? Maybe he's simply reluctant to be around me because he's embarrassed?
I doubt it. He doesn't seem to be the type to get embarrassed. If anything, he's probably smugly satisfied that he was able to get me off that easily.
A door on the other side of the dining room opens and closes, and he finally emerges.
"About time," I say, trying to keep my voice level and friendly, as if nothing happened earlier, but he doesn't look at me. Both his face and body emit an invisible tension.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"You ate already?"
"Yeah, I was hungry, so I started. But then I thought I'd wait for you after all. I have a lot left on my plate. I can still eat with you if you want."
"It doesn't matter," he says as he sits, and I wonder if it's my imagination or if he looks more upset than he did earlier.
I watch him as he transfers a big lobster tail into his plate, then another.
He's not being antagonistic per se. He barely says a word to me as he starts slicing into his lobster, but his facial expression tells me that something's not right with him.
"Where did you go?" I ask to break the awkward silence.
"I had a call."
"Business?"
"No." He doesn't say anything else. It's a blatant "drop it" signal, letting me know that I'm skating on very thin ice.
"We're going to breakfast with my parents in the morning," he says.
