Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 43118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43118 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
“I recommend the pasta,” he says, and when I look at the menu, I realize he’s making a joke.
“It’s all pasta,” I point out. I look up and see him grinning. “Oh, I see.”
“It’s really good stuff,” he says. “I promise. You can’t go wrong with any of the dishes on here.”
“Well, that’s going to be a problem,” I say, scanning down the whole list. “Because I think I might want to try all of them.”
He laughs. “You want to choose a couple? We can share half and half plates.”
“Really?” I find a flush coming to my cheeks again. Why does he have the ability to make me so flustered? “Are you sure?”
“Why not?” he asks, and I can think of one very clear answer to which I don’t want to voice. It’s because that’s the kind of thing couples do, not strangers.
I wonder if he’s like this with all of his clients. For some reason, the very idea of it makes me feel a little angry. I wouldn’t want to imagine him sharing pasta with anyone else.
Woah. We’ve only just met, and it’s not like we will ever be together. I need to get control of myself. I haven’t even established if he has a girlfriend yet.
Oh, god – he’s older than me. He might be married.
He might be married, and I’m sitting here blushing about sharing a bowl of pasta with him.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he shrugs. “I don’t mind.”
“Oh, um,” I say, realizing I must have left a really long pause. “I don’t know. I might actually just go for the mushroom tortellini. It sounds good, anyway, so I probably don’t need to try other dishes.”
“That’s fine,” he nods with a smile. “It’s a good choice. I think I’ll go for the pumpkin ravioli. It always seems like a comfort food in winter.”
I smile. At least the names of the food here are familiar. I was worried that with such a fancy place, I wouldn’t understand what the menu said. But ravioli, tortellini – these words I know.
“Let’s order, then,” he says, putting his menu down, and as if by magic, a waiter appears.
As Hunter orders on my behalf, I realize how pleasant this restaurant is. Even though we’re in a shared dining space, it’s not loud. I don’t have to strain to hear Hunter. A little light piano music is playing in the background, but it doesn’t overpower the conversation.
The servers are so discreet that they almost seem to glide from table to table, barely raising any attention. They are simply there when they’re needed.
The décor has nothing that stands out or makes me gasp, nothing so unusual or show-stopping that it would take away from the enjoyment of the meal. I get the feeling that the owner must really take food seriously.
Fortunately, this restaurant seems to be my kind of place. It’s a shame that the sight of the prices listed by the meals makes my heart shudder to a stop right before the waiter takes the menus away.
I wish I hadn’t been so flustered earlier – I should have looked at them first! I could have ordered the cheapest possible item on the menu, like a salad – or maybe just an appetizer.
“So,” he says, pouring a glass of water for me from the decanter on the table. “Tell me about this case as slowly as you like. If it’s difficult, we can do it a little at a time – or I can even guess if that helps.”
I take a breath and then a sip of water. A basket of rolls appears in front of us, and I grab one, finding it still warm from the kitchen, cutting it open, and spreading a little butter from a dish next to it before taking a bite.
The bread is delicious – freshly baked, warm, buttery, and light enough not to fill me up before the main course. It’s perfect, which fits exactly with what I expected. I give a little sigh.
Good food always makes me feel better.
“My father has a problem,” I say, which is putting it lightly. “He’s gotten himself into a lot of trouble. I want to help him get out of that trouble. The problem is, he won’t tell me anything about it. He wants to protect me from it. He doesn’t understand that I’m involved, no matter what. And I think he’s still lying to me about getting over his problem, too.”
“He has an addiction?” Hunter guesses. That makes me feel a little better. It makes me think that maybe he’s seen this kind of thing before, and it’s not so uncommon.
“Yes,” I nod. “Gambling.”
Hunter sucks in a breath of sympathy. “He has debts.”
“Big ones.” I hesitate and take a breath. “And we’ve started to receive threats.”
“The kind of threats that make you too scared to go to the police,” Hunter suggests.