“It’s the lackey who’s lacking?”
She laughs. “I think he’s new. Otherwise he would’ve known who I was and wouldn’t have said no when I asked for something special. Rinaldo—one of my cousins you met last night—he works here as the director of rooms. I’ve been here with clients a few times, so most everyone knows me.”
So, he’s in management. “Is he going to join us? Perhaps hover for an hour or two?”
She chuckles. “He’s not that bad.”
“Isn’t he? He hasn’t sent a spy in to watch us? Perhaps even record our conversation?” I keep my tone light to show that I’m—mostly—joking. But I wouldn’t put it past him, based on his behavior last night.
She rolls her eyes. “Please. His people are busy.”
Our drinks arrive, and the food comes soon after. The waiter is much more subdued now. I can see Dave, looking displeased in the background. So the maître d’ set the man straight.
Jo’s French toast is exactly as specified—maple syrup on the side, fresh berries in small mounds on the plate. Powdered sugar tops the fruit and toast like fresh snow. My burger also looks fine, with a long pickle spear and steak fries cooked to crisp, golden perfection.
Jo digs into her food. “God, this is so good. No, wait. Life. Life is so good.”
Her obvious enjoyment is contagious. My dark mood dissipates, replaced by a light pleasure. For some reason, I think of the sun breaking through clouds. I take a bite of my burger.
“How do you like it?” Jo asks.
“It’s good.” I don’t get the kind of happiness from our meal that she does.
Perhaps she senses the unspoken part of my reaction. “If it you don’t like it, you can send it back.”
“It’s fine. Food is fuel. Or a social opportunity—to create an occasion to network, to mingle, to be polite,” I say, revealing more than I’m comfortable with. But I don’t want her to think I’m suffering through some inferior dinner for her. I despise playing the martyr and manipulating everyone around me with it. That’s Mom’s game, not mine.
“Wow.” Jo stares at me. “That’s kind of…bleak. You thought that about the food at our family dinner, too?”
Tread lightly. She adores her uncle. “No, it was excellent. But the main goal was to see your family.”
“Well, of course we wanted to see each other, but we love food too. My mom and aunt ply us with it to show us how much they love us. They always say we’re, like, emaciated.” She laughs softly.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. Jo is so beautiful, so bright. If joy were a person, it would look and shine like her.
An excruciating longing follows at the image of what her family is like. How they look out for and care for each other. How her parents and aunt and uncle still shelter and protect her.
“If you think eating is a chore, marrying me isn’t the best idea,” Jo adds.
“It won’t be a chore,” I say, thinking back on the dinner last night. She needs to do better if she’s trying to scare me away. “I promise.”
She returns to eating, and then suddenly scowls at a spot behind me. I turn around, but I don’t see anything that would cause her to react like that.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Ugh. It’s Rinaldo’s assistant.”
“And?”
“She’s spying on us.”
“Is she?” I start to crane my neck, wondering what I should do to scare the spy away.
“Don’t bother. She isn’t somebody you can shame. She only listens to him, and he probably told her to report back.” Jo’s knife-work grows more aggressive on the toast. “I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything.”
“Oh?” I dip a fry into ketchup and offer it to her. It seems like the thing to do here. “What do you think I’m being pressured into?” Perhaps she’s been missing the dynamic between us. I’m trying to convince her to marry me.
She takes the fry and bites the ketchup-dipped part off. “My family doesn’t expect—or require—you to marry me because of the baby. To them, marriage has to be about more than just kids.”