even left the house.”
“Oh. Okay then. Are you saying you’re a lightweight?”
“To certain alcoholic beverages, yes. Champagne is one that goes to my head quicker than others. But I’m fine with drinking tequila shots or Duck Farts, for instance.”
Troy’s eyebrows shoot to the heavens. “Duck Farts? What in the world is that?”
“It’s a combination of Kahlúa, Irish cream, and whiskey. But I prefer it without the Kahlúa. It’s delicious.”
“Noted. Would you like to have that instead of wine? I’m sure they can make it for you.”
“Oh no. I don’t think it goes with French cuisine. Wine is fine.”
“Does it also go to your head faster?” His lips curl into a mischievous smile.
I watch him through slits. “Why do you want to know, Troy? Are you planning on getting me drunk so I can lose the bet?”
He widens his eyes innocently. “Me? Of course not. Are you implying you turn into a nympho under the influence?”
My face bursts into flames. No, you’ve turned me into one, Troy.
“I’m not saying that at all,” I lie.
I’m already hanging on by a thread. Sitting across from him in his suit jacket that makes him look like he just sprang from a fashion magazine, plus being under the allure of his intoxicating scent, is already doing crazy things to my body. I really don’t need to add alcohol to my system; it’ll shut my brain down, and then my body will take control.
“Okay. Just checking.” He opens the wine list and does a quick perusal of the menu. “Do you have any preference in mind?”
“Oh please. I know nothing about wine. You go ahead and pick.”
He looks up. “What gives you the idea that I know about wine?”
“Aren’t you a regular here?”
“Kind of. This is Grandma’s favorite restaurant. I always come with her, and she chooses the wine.”
“I guess we’ll just have to gamble then.” I wink at him.
He scrunches his nose. “Maybe we’ll let the waiter suggest something.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The server returns with our water, and after we tell him we have no clue about wine, he’s more than happy to suggest a bottle. We turn our attention to the dinner menu, and I’m faced with the impossible choice of selecting what I want. Everything looks delicious.
“Besides your unusual reaction to alcohol, anything else I should know beforehand?” Troy asks.
I chuckle. “What do you mean by unusual?”
“I’ve never met someone before who would get drunk from a glass of champagne but could handle copious amounts of tequila and whiskey with no problem.”
“What can I say? I’m special.”
“Oh, I know that.” He smirks.
I watch him through slitted eyes. “Somehow I feel your statement has a double meaning.”
“Maybe, but nothing bad. I promise.”
I open my mouth to ask him to elaborate, but the waiter returns to take our orders, and when he leaves, I decide to let the subject drop.
“How long have we been living together?” Troy leans back, obviously comfortable. Even though I pegged him to be a rowdy jock when we met, he fits perfectly in this sophisticated environment. He’s like a rogue prince from a fairy tale.
“I don’t know. Almost two months?”
“Right. And yet I only know that you’re into LARP and board games, and you want to be a journalist. Is that correct?”
“Partially. I don’t want to be a journalist. I want to write fiction.”
“Oh, that’s cool. Are we talking books or maybe a screenplay?”
No one has ever asked me that before. Whenever I mention I want to write fiction, all I get is a pitiful glance. I get it, making a living as a fiction writer isn’t the easiest career path. Even with the growth of indie publishing, it takes dedication and long working hours to succeed. And even so, many people never do.
“Both? I don’t know.” I reach for my water.
“Have you written anything that I can read?”
I take a sip and then answer, “Yes and no. I have written plenty of stuff, but it’s not ready for the public eye yet.”
“Oh come on. Why not?”
“Because… I don’t think I’m ready to open myself to criticism.”
“You write for the newspaper. Aren’t people reading that?”
“Yeah, but it’s different.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know.”
I sense my barriers going up. My muscles are tense, and I can’t wait to change the subject. As different as Troy and I are, he’s the only one who seems to know exactly where my weak points are.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you into a corner,” he says. “How about you ask me the tough questions?”
I’m not