Dating Makes Perfect - Pintip Dunn Page 0,65
I could see straight into his heart. I loved that boy. I’m not sure I ever stopped.
He brings our interlocked hands to his lips and kisses my knuckles. “I wish I wasn’t driving.”
I narrow my eyes. “And if you weren’t, we’d be doing exactly what we’re doing right now.”
“I can always hope.” He grins.
But I’m not ready to let go of the subject. “It’s weird, you know? To think about you and Mama plotting behind my back. It’s like, you were conspiring with her. She discussed the dates with you; for all I know, she even consulted you. I only found out about each date at the last minute.”
“I get why that would feel strange.” He’s quiet for a minute. Outside, the guardrails, the oversize highway signs, and the rolling hills whiz by. “But I promise, it wasn’t an ‘us versus you’ situation. She just feels comfortable with me, and your dad never wanted to be involved in the planning. So she talked to me.”
I turn this over in my mind. “How does she think you feel about me?”
“Well, I make fun of you. A lot.” He shoots me a teasing glance. “How you’re always ripping your tights. How you can’t wrap an egg roll to save your life. How you tried to impress the new guy by pouring jalapeño vinegar on your shirt.”
“You told her that?” My face burns. “No wonder she thinks I’m a dating disaster.”
He smirks. “She also thinks I’m a dating phenom.”
“Don’t tell me you gave her a list of all the girls you’ve ever kissed,” I say dryly.
“Nah. That would take too long.” He laughs, and I smack him across the shoulder.
“Ow!”
“You deserve it,” I grumble.
His eyes are still smiling, but he arranges his mouth into a suitably solemn expression. “The real reason she trusts me is because I told her that I would never let anyone hurt you.” He takes his eyes off the road and gives me a brief, searing glance. “Least of all me.”
Chapter Thirty
My five-year-old niece has dubbed Lowcountry, “My favorite place outside of Disney World!” And I couldn’t agree more.
Red-and-white-checked tablecloths cover long communal tables, and red stools snuggle up to the wooden bar. A handwritten menu is painted on the dark-brown columns, while fairy lights and greenery drape across the ceiling. The center of the room is dominated by a long, metal trough sink, an encouragement to get your hands dirty. But the food, of course, is the main event.
Patrons dig into the seafood boil, spilling over with succulent lobster tails, king crab legs, shrimp, mussels, even crawfish. A cloud of steam bursts in their faces when they cut into the plastic bags, whetting their appetites. Paper food trays boast heaping sides of jalapeño corn bread and red curry mac-n-cheese, crab hush puppies and garlic noodles. The handful of people who have already moved on to dessert bite into deep-fried Oreos—and moan.
Mat’s mouth drops as soon as we walk inside, as much from the garlic-and-butter scent as the lush spread on each table.
I grin. “You’ll be dreaming about the Everythang sauce for days.”
“Good.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I could use something new to dream about. My recurring dream was getting a little…”
“Boring?” I demand.
“I was going to say obsessive,” he says, his eyes dancing. “But boring works, too.”
I slap him playfully, and he catches my hand and pulls me against his chest. My breath gets clogged in my throat. He might be making these comments just to give me an excuse to touch him. If he is, I’m not complaining.
“This restaurant isn’t exactly private,” I warn.
“Nobody knows us here,” he says, the height of reason. “So it might as well be.”
There’s probably something wrong with his logic. I just don’t want to figure out what.
When I check in at the front, however, I realize that his premise is not fully correct. People do know us here. As soon as I say my name, the hostess’s eyes light up. “Oh! Your uncle’s at our second location tonight. But he left strict instructions to treat you like VIPs.”
Mat and I exchange a look and follow her through the restaurant, past all the communal tables, to a private corner booth. It even has a circular raised wall that stretches most of the way around the table.
This table’s a mistake. It’s got to be. No way would Mama—and by extension, my uncle—have approved of this VIP table, hidden from the other patrons’ eyes.
“Actually, I’m not sure—”
Mat cuts me off. “This is perfect,