Page 6 of The Disasters of Dating (Love Connections #6)

KEATON

Any troubles you may have will pass very shortly.

Learn Chinese: 晚餐 —Wǎncān — Dinner

I grin behind my menu. I’m pretty sure that Poppy did not intend for dinner to cost this much money.

I have no intention of having her pay…I am a gentleman.

Maybe it’s a little mean of me to watch her sweat as I order the most expensive thing on the menu, but she did try to have me arrested.

Falsely. So, she kind of deserves it, right?

The server comes to the table. “Welcome to Crab Market. Have you been here before?”

Poppy nods. “Yeah, I work in one of the shops farther down the terminal.”

The server smiles but quickly turns her attention—and smile—to me. “And you, honey?”

I shake my head. “Nope. I’m a first timer.

” I drop my eyes to the menu. I’m mildly annoyed at the “honey.” I know I shouldn’t be.

If I were in Louisiana or South Carolina and a woman called me honey, I’d chalk it up to southern charm.

But this lady has no accent. And she didn’t call Poppy honey.

It feels like it’s a flirty thing, not a cultural thing. I’m not into it.

She leans in close and points at the menu with a long, sculpted, red nail. Her breath tickles my cheek. “I would recommend the Ahi. We flew it in fresh this morning.”

We? Was she on the plane with the tuna under one arm and a halibut under the other?

I scoot over on the bench, putting as much space between us as this little table allows.

Can’t she see that I’m with Poppy? While I never said this was a date, won’t people assume it is?

I clear my throat. “I think I’ve already decided on the crab-stuffed halibut.

” I close my menu and look over at Poppy.

I don’t know her well enough to interpret what look she’s giving me.

Is it weird that I hope it’s jealousy? But it could be exasperation at what I ordered.

The server seems to take the hint because she straightens and steps back.

She doesn’t have a pad of paper. So this is a “remember-my-order” kind of establishment.

That can either be great or very bad. I guess I’ll wait to see which.

“Great choice,” she says in a slightly less perky voice. “Do you want soup or salad?”

“Soup,” I say. “Oh, and can we get an appetizer of iced shrimp?” I swear I hear a quiet huff from across the table. I bite back my smile.

The server—whose name is Bethany, if her name tag is correct—nods. “Sure, thing, honey.” I tick my head to the side, clutching my napkin in one hand.

She looks at Poppy, and her smile is far less genuine. “And for you, Miss?”

Poppy licks her lips, and I notice how very kissable they are. Not too plump, but not flat either. Just the right amount of fullness. I shake my head. What am I thinking? This isn’t a date. Or is it?

“I’ll have the halibut burger, please.” Poppy closes her menu.

“Did you want the salad?”

Poppy taps her finger on her lips, and I can’t help but wonder again what it would be like to kiss her. “No, I’ll have the sweet potato fries, please.”

The server eyes her, “Figures,” she mumbles as she turns away from the table.

“What figures?” Poppy asks, her mouth draws down in a frown.

I shrug. “She’s probably mad because you can eat fries and still maintain a nice figure.”

She raises a brow. “What do you know about my figure?”

“Those clothes don’t hide everything, you know.

” What am I saying? I mean, I can tell she is trim.

But it’s not something I should comment on.

Especially this early in our relationship.

Or if we even had any sort of relationship, which we don’t.

Maybe it’s best if I just keep my mouth shut.

“Maybe she figured you were a vegan and would prefer a salad.” So much for the keeping silent decision.

Her brow arches, but we fall silent. I take a piece of bread from the basket and spread some butter on it, just so I have something else to concentrate on.

This is the oddest date I’ve ever been on.

I mean, I’ve never gone out with someone who’s tried to have me arrested.

I’m not sure what the protocol is. Do I make small talk?

Are we trying to learn things about each other like we would if we were on a real first date?

I was trying to build up the nerve to ask her out.

So maybe this counts as a real date. Or maybe I’m the only one of us thinking like that.

“So,” she finally says, breaking the silence, “where are you from?”

I lean back in my seat and fiddle with the tines on my fork. “The East Coast—New Hampshire.”

She tilts her head to the side. “I’ve heard it’s pretty back there.”

“It is.” I nod. She picked a good topic and one that I can speak about for far longer than most people have the patience for. “I love it. Especially in the fall. Everyone always raves about the leaves in Vermont. But they’ve got nothing on New Hampshire.”

She smiles, and it actually looks genuine. I should have realized nature talk is right up her alley. “We have pretty leaves here, too. But I’ve heard they’re nothing like Vermont.” She grimaces. “Sorry, I’ve never heard much mentioned about New Hampshire.”

I give her a bland look and shake my head. “I rest my case.”

She grins wider, and I’m struck by how beautiful she is.

It’s a very wholesome vibe. She doesn’t look like she’s wearing much makeup, but the little she does only enhances her features, like her eyes.

They are a very pretty green—when they aren’t scowling at you.

They almost perfectly match the stripe in her shirt.

The server brings my soup and sets it before me with a spoon. “Thanks,” I say as I stare down at the bowl.

“Is there a problem, honey?” She asks.

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t see that it was Manhattan clam chowder, that’s all. It took me by surprise for a minute. But it looks great.”

The server flicks her brows up but turns and walks away.

I take a bite, and the red juice dribbles down my chin. I grab for my napkin, but it isn’t on my lap. Not wanting the soup to drip on my shirt and stain it, I brush at my chin with my hand. “I swear I had my napkin a minute ago.”

I catch sight of it in my peripheral vision. It must have fallen on the floor. I bend to pick it up, and as I come up quickly, the back of my head connects with something hard.

“Ouch,” Poppy cries out.

I jerk the rest of the way up and look across the table.

She is rubbing at her forehead, tears clear in the corners of her eyes.

I will admit to a bit of moisture forming in my own eyes.

I lift a hand and feel the spot on the back of my head.

“I’m so sorry!” I reach toward her, but I’m not sure why.

What am I going to do? Kiss it better? While I might like to explore that option, I’m quite sure Poppy would object.

She waves me off. “It’s okay. You didn’t do it on purpose. It was bad timing, that’s all.”

I put the offending napkin across my lap.

Well, that likely didn’t improve on our already rocky start.

I look at the small space on the bench next to me.

“Maybe you should sit here. It will be harder to bonk heads if we are right next to each other.” My motives are mostly pure.

I am inviting her for safety reasons. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy her closeness, does it?

She looks at me like it might be a trick.

But then she shrugs. I apparently have passed whatever test she was giving me.

She stands up and slides onto the bench.

The table is small enough that our thighs are touching.

I can smell her perfume. It’s not one I’ve ever smelled before, but it fits her somehow.

It’s light and airy and somehow it makes me feel lighter?

More peaceful? I can’t exactly explain it.

I’m grateful it isn’t patchouli. It seems like that might be right up her alley, too.

But that stuff gives me such a headache.

I smile at her. “If a napkin falls on the floor and lands between us, we will call it out before we reach for it. Deal?”

She laughs. Woah. When she does that, something volcanic—but not in the stomach flu kind of way—happens in my stomach. “Deal.”

I take another bite of my soup and lean forward to reach for the breadbasket on the other side of the table.

As I fall back onto the bench, my elbow smacks into Poppy.

Her eye, to be precise. I sit there frozen for a moment.

What in the actual heck is happening? “I’m so sorry!

” I say for the second time. “Let me get some ice in a napkin for you.” I lean forward again to grab the pitcher of water so I can fish ice out of it, but I lose my balance.

Dropping my hand onto the table to steady me, it hits the side of my bowl and, like a projectile, the soup flies across the table—missing me completely—and drops down the front of Poppy’s white with yellow and green trimmed boho shirt. Or I should say formerly white shirt.

I just stare at her. I mean, what am I supposed to say? What do I do? It’s not like I can help clean her up. And ‘I’m sorry’ for the third time in as many minutes seems overdone. Maybe even a bit insincere.

She looks down the front of her with one eye—the other one is still closed and watering. No words have escaped, and I’m not sure how to take it .

“Oh. My. Actual. Crap. This is all my fault. I’m not usually this clumsy.” I hand over my napkin—the piece of fabric that started this whole thing—and she wipes at her shirt and skirt.

She shakes her head. “No, it’s my fault. My horoscope said the universe would throw me some curveballs today. I didn’t realize how many of them would hit me in the face.”