Page 65 of Delicious (Delicious #1)

Chapter Five

Rhett

Mellie:

Here. Get table. You here soon?

Me:

OMW, ten mins. Stuck in traffic.

We’re getting dinner. Dinner . This is a first, that’s for damn sure. I’ve never saved a guy from a wasp, gotten a thank-you hand job for it, and then been asked out to dinner. I’ve never actually saved a guy from anything before, and usually, the hand job came after the dinner date on the few I’ve had over the last couple of years.

And then, of course, always came the thanks, this was fun, but I’m not looking for anything serious text, which was something I was still anticipating.

Mellie was different though. The guy had definitely hated me until the whole incident in the truck, but I don’t think he’s the kind of person who’d change his entire tune based off a squashed bug.

So maybe I’ve been reading him all wrong to begin with?

I might not be such a mess of nerves if I’d been given the chance to trauma-dump all my anxiety, but the moment I got back to Robbie’s office, we had to immediately march downstairs for the meeting, which took up all the free time we had left before Robbie’s last two classes of the day.

‘This feels fucked-up,’ I’d told him as we approached the door. ‘It’s like interpreting my own firing.’

He was pretty done with my defeatist attitude. ‘If we get fired, I’ll hire you on as my personal interpreter, and you can follow me around to the grocery store and the bank, okay? Now, will you shut up, please?’

Shut up didn’t mean literally shut up. It meant quit panicking and do my job, which I did. And of course, neither of us was fired. We were told it was a baseless claim and that the student’s test scores and end-of-semester evaluations told all the powers that be who held our jobs in their rich, corporate America hands that there was no difference between a hearing and Deaf teacher. And that classes taught in ASL provided the same access to information that verbal English did.

We didn’t get an apology, of course, and Robbie later told me that the student whose mom complained dropped out. I didn’t feel good about it. The poor kid was probably humiliated, and he deserved better than all that.

But whatever.

Our jobs were safe, and that left me the whole afternoon to panic about my date with Mellie. My only saving grace was that Robbie was too distracted with some project he had going on to notice my mood. Or the very faint come stains on my pants.

We said a quick goodbye, and I felt a small pang when I walked out to see the food truck had already left for the afternoon, but that didn’t matter. I was going to see him tonight.

If this traffic ever lets up.

Sitting back, I stare down at my jeans—the most expensive pair I own, which almost makes me look like I have an ass—and I can’t help but wonder if any of this will impress him. He seemed perfectly into me when I was wearing my school interpreter, all-black getup, so maybe he wasn’t super discerning.

Either way, he’d seen something he’d liked earlier this afternoon, and I can only hope he’s still into me now that most of the day has passed.

The traffic dies down five minutes later, and I’m trying not to run the moment I get out of my car, praying that he hasn’t gotten tired and left. The poor hostess jumps when I burst through the door, but I bypass her entirely and make my way into the dining room.

And there he is. He’s facing the front of the restaurant, but he’s not looking up. He’s tearing into the free mini loaf of bread like it owes him money, and he dips it into the butter cup without using a knife. That should be horrific. I mean, really, that’s the worst table manners ever, but I’m helplessly charmed.

He looks up just as I start walking toward him, and the chair squeaks loudly, almost toppling over as he stands. His cheeks flush pink, and he rubs the back of his neck before tipping his hand off the side of his forehead.

‘Hi,’ I fingerspell.

I don’t know what the rules are for us now, but I lean into my courage a bit, rise up onto my toes to close the couple of inches between us, and drop a quick kiss to his lips. He moans very softly, curling a hand around the back of my neck, and takes his own kiss.

Deeper and definitely needy.

We break apart after a beat, and I realize we have a small audience, but he doesn’t seem to care, so why should I? I drop to my seat, and a second later, a server appears with that currently popular wind-swept, shaggy hair look.

I glance at Mellie. I don’t know what his preferred restaurant communication is like. Most of my Deaf friends want me to do all the ordering so we can move things along, but with Mellie, I feel overly cautious.

‘Hi. Can I get you something to drink?’ the server signs in perfect ASL.

It’s only then I notice a blinking light behind a lock of his hair, and I realize the server’s got cochlear implants on both sides. It makes sense why Mellie picked this place, of course.

He’s casting me a knowing smile now.

‘Water to start,’ I say. The server nods and turns away, and I raise a brow at Mellie. ‘I know not all Deaf people are friends, but do you know our server?’

‘My cousin,’ Mellie signs with a shrug. ‘I wanted to eat here tonight in case it goes bad so I have backup.’

I can’t help a small laugh. ‘Okay.’

‘Don’t worry. If I act like an asshole, he’ll take your side,’ Mellie promises me.

The server returns with a tiny smirk, and he ignores Mellie by putting his back to him, and he smiles widely at me. His expression is a little sultry, and it might have worked if I hadn’t already fallen for the indignant man sitting in front of me.

‘I’m Fern.’ He spells his name, and then he gives his name sign, which is a non-initialized sign for plant, and he signs it short and quick. It’s not the most convenient name sign, so my guess is it’s very important to his personality.

‘Rhett,’ I tell him, then offer him my name sign that Robbie’s given me. I have more than one, depending on what group I’m hanging out with, but my work name seems safer.

His smile widens, and then he laughs when Mellie reaches over and physically shoves him away from the table. ‘We need a minute.’

Fern winks, then walks off, and Mellie huffs with his arms crossed. I give him a beat before he relaxes, but his gaze is fiery. ‘Don’t flirt with him.’

‘I’m not interested in him. He’s not my type. I like strawberry blonds with attitude problems and wasp stings on their neck.’

His eyes flare wide, and then he flushes and glances away for a second. ‘I feel bad about today.’

‘What? Why?’

‘I took advantage of you and?—’

‘No.’ I stop him with a quick snap of my fingers. ‘I know you didn’t like me from the beginning, but I think you’re very hot, and I wanted that. It was good.’

He swallows heavily. ‘Too many servers here know ASL.’

Ah. So we don’t get a private conversation in public. Fair enough. ‘We can talk about it later.’

Mellie relaxes a fraction. ‘I want to do this right.’

I frown at him, confused.

‘Date,’ he signs. ‘I want to date. To get to know you. Your favorite color. Favorite food. Favorite animal.’

I can’t help a small laugh, and I lean slightly closer to the table. ‘Blue,’ I say and look pointedly at his eyes. His ears go pink. ‘Mushroom burger,’ I add. His blush deepens. ‘And I used to love cats the most, but a friend of mine recently got into raising button quail’—I spell the name—‘and he’s been sending me videos from his new farm.’

‘You know a farmer?’ he asks.

I snort. Salem is definitely not a farmer. At least, not yet. He and I used to work for the same interpreting agency, but before this college job came up, he burned out and ran screaming into the night. So to speak. A few months after he quit, he inherited his grandfather’s old house, complete with a field of vegetables, four goats, one mini cow, and flocks of silkie chickens.

He’s all but leaned in now, and he’s moved on to button quail. What a life.

‘He’s working on it. He and I used to work together, but interpreting was too much for him.’

He raises a brow, and I wonder if he’s going to challenge me because I know several Deaf people who take offense to interpreters complaining about the job. And I understand why. It’s a symbiotic relationship, but we can just quit and find a new career. They can’t quit being Deaf and needing access.

Mellie doesn’t seem bothered though, which is a surprise, considering his reaction toward me when we first met. ‘What did you do together? College?’

‘Before college. We worked at an agency. It was the worst,’ I confess. He gestures for me to go on. ‘It was a lot of concerts and doctor appointments,’ I tell him. ‘But we lived in Seattle, so it was also a lot of shows. Comedy, plays, burlesque,’ I tell him.

He laughs and shakes his head. ‘Let me guess? The main acts always started to talk to you?’

The old trauma pings around my chest. ‘The night Salem snapped was at a comedy club. The opening acts didn’t pay any attention to us, but the headliner did. He spent twenty minutes making us sign the most vulgar swear words and laughing about it.’

Mellie grimaces. ‘No one told them you’re not part of the show?’

‘Someone told him after. But Salem was so stressed-out he quit that night. His parents were angry. He’s CODA,’ I add. ‘They wanted him to stay in the community and give back.’

Mellie wrinkles his nose. ‘Not a CODA’s job to interpret.’

‘They’re old. Very old,’ I emphasize. They’re the last vestiges of Martha’s Vineyard Deaf community old. He was their miracle, late-in-life baby. But I’m going to dump all that on Mellie. ‘He’s doing well now. He has his farm. And I got this job.’

He tilts his head to the side and studies me. ‘Are you CODA?’

I shake my head. ‘I have a Deaf cousin who moved in with us when I was four, so I started learning then. When I got to college, I started studying history, and I was doing my minor in Deaf studies for the easy GPA boost. But then I realized it was something that made sense. Interpreting,’ I add to make sure he’s following what I mean by that. ‘I changed majors, and here we are.’

He glances away for a beat, then says, ‘I’m not smart like that.’

I want to disagree, but I don’t know him well enough for that yet, so I tuck away my argument for later when I do. Instead, I say, ‘You’re very talented.’

His ears flush again, and he licks his lips. ‘Hungry?’ Oh, but he doesn’t sign hungry. Or, well, he does, but it’s a different kind of hungry.

My dick twitches in my pants.

‘We should eat first.’

‘I can make us something better than this at home.’

The implications are…a lot. And yeah, I want it. ‘Will your cousin be angry?’

There’s fire in his eyes again. ‘Do you care?’

Not one little bit.