But then—
Can it be? Am I on a date?
Chapter Ten
No. This can’t be a date.
This is just a place he likes—and why not, if he can afford it? Since his parents own a restaurant, he’s probably a major foodie and a snob for tablecloths and such.
Yeah. That must be it.
He scans my face. “Are you sure you’re fine? You seem a little shell-shocked.”
“It’s this place, not the… umm… incident from yesterday,” I reply, my cheeks instantly burning.
He looks around as if seeing the restaurant for the first time. “We could go somewhere else.”
“No, this is fine. You’ve only got fifty minutes as is. I want to get down to business.”
He arches his perfectly real eyebrow.
“Project Belka,” I say. “I wanted—”
The waiter appears as if out of thin air and inquires if we’ve decided what to order.
“Chef’s choice,” we say in unison.
The waiter bows and scurries away.
“Back to the matter at hand.” I take a sip of the wine, for bravery. “The testing for Project Belka—”
“Is not something we want to discuss in such a public venue.” He glances at the swanky people nearby. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
I put my wine glass down with a little too much force. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
He gestures at the ice statues and the other décor. “We’re here because we need to eat.”
My cheeks flush, but with anger instead of embarrassment for a change. “I don’t like having something like this hanging over me.”
His sensuous lips flatten. “It doesn’t have to.”
Is that a threat? “So you’re firing me over—”
“Firing you?” He looks genuinely perplexed. “Given the circumstances, I just assumed you’d want to give up the project.”
I get it now. He doesn’t think I can handle it. Like my asshole ex, he probably thinks I’m too much of a prude goody two-shoes for sex toys.
I’m so sick of this. Just because I have a round baby face that’s prone to blushing, everyone makes these sweeping assumptions about me.
Fuck that.
“I’m not giving anything up. You’d have to pry the project from me. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” Amusement touches his eyes, but also something else—admiration maybe?
“I get that we can’t talk details here,” I say, switching to a tone that’s much more appropriate when addressing my boss’s boss. “Please pick a time and place that suits you. I’d really like to proceed with the project.”
“Deal.” He pulls out his phone and fires off a text. “How about this? If you come with me to my next engagement, we can talk in the limo on the way.”
Next engagement? Before I can ask him for more details, the waiter arrives, carrying a small plate with something that looks like a crepe with caviar on it.
“De Jaeger,” the waiter says. “And kuznechik blinis. The chef sends his regards to your father for the recipe.”
So, my theory about his parents’ restaurant having something to do with this lunch was correct.
This isn’t a date.
Too bad. I was warming up to the idea.
“Care to explain what this is to this gourmet dummy?” I ask as soon as the waiter hurries away.
“Taste it first,” he suggests.
I do, and an explosion of umami flavor tantalizes my taste buds. “Subtle nuttiness,” I say in my best imitation of a posh food critic, “with the slightest hint of sweet, savory, and a note of woodiness.”
“That’s not a bad description,” he says, tasting his portion.
“And what is it?”
He points at the white eggs. “That’s snail caviar. And blinis are a type of Russian crepe, only instead of traditional buckwheat, these are made with cricket flour, which provides that nutty flavor.”
Blood drains from my face.
To fight my gag reflex, I stay so silent you can hear crickets.
No. Must. Not. Think. Of. Crickets.
Or snails. Or slugs. Or the Blob. Or sentient snot. Or—
“This food is perfectly safe.” The Impaler gives me a worried look. “You liked the way it tasted, didn’t you?”
Well, yeah, but that was before I knew what abomination I was eating.
He waves at the waiter, who rushes over right away.
“The lady will have the chef’s sampling of the children’s menu,” my boss squared declares.
The children’s menu? So now he thinks that I’m not just unadventurous sexually, but also when it comes to food.
“No,” I snap. “The lady will stick with the chef’s choice.”
The corners of the Impaler’s mouth tilt up slightly as he asks the waiter, “What’s coming next?”
“Balut Benedict,” the waiter replies.
I nervously sip my wine. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Balut is a duck egg in which the fetus has gotten a chance to develop into a little bird,” the Impaler explains. “That Hollandaise sauce is usually made with duck eggs too.”
“Fermented,” the waiter adds helpfully.
Fermented.
Of course.
I didn’t think my face could get any whiter, but there it is.
“I’m still sticking with it,” I shock myself by saying. “What comes after the eggs?”
“Huitlacoche chowder,” the waiter says, and I think he’s beginning to enjoy himself at my expense.
The Impaler full-on smiles. “Huitlacoche is also known as corn smut—a fungus that used to destroy corn crops but nowadays is a delicacy.”
“Seriously?” I look at the waiter.
He nods.
“I feel like I’m on the hidden camera version of Fear Factor,” I say.
“You know what, I’ll take the children’s menu,” the Impaler tells the waiter. His eyes gleam behind the lenses of his glasses as he asks me, “Want to join me?”
I sigh in defeat. “You don’t need to do that.”
“I insist. I’ve never tried the kids’ menu, so I’m going to do it today.”
“Fine.” I take a small sip of my water, mostly to keep the crickets and the snail eggs down. “I’ll have the children’s menu too.”
The waiter leaves.
The Impaler rightfully assumes the rest of the crepes are all his, so he finishes them as I sit there, trying to think of how I can save face after all that.
Or at the very least, start some kind of a conversation.
My phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Ava.
Impaled yet? This is followed by a syringe emoji and an eggplant.
It’s like she sniffed out this maybe-date.
A burst of irritation at the world at large crystalizes into something more specific—namely, annoyance at Ava. I blurt out loud, “Who do you think would win in a fight: Snow White or Belle from Beauty and the Beast?”
There. It’s more civilized than asking him if he thinks I’d succeed in pummeling Ava into the ground.
The Impaler swallows the last bite of his dubious appetizer, his forehead furrowing in thought. “Would this be a random encounter in a neutral location?”