I didn’t take her somewhere fancy for our first date because nothing about Beck screams escargot and smears of sauces on plates. Instead, I opted for somewhere she’d probably not go with a baby. Somewhere she probably wouldn’t pick at all. But it’s so fucking good.
“King-Dum,” she reads, her eyes glued to the name board above the dark windowed restaurant. “Why did I not know this was here?” She looks out all of the windows, twisting in the leather seat, blonde hair curtaining her breasts and shoulders. Fuck, everytime she moves, I get a whiff of her shampoo or perfume or skin–whatever it is–and all I wanna do is lay her down and drive my cock between her spread legs and make her cry out my name.
She turns back to face me, a puzzled look on her face. “Is it new?”
I nod. “Yep. Atticus started bringing me here a year ago. That’s when it opened.”
“Atticus is the big scary-looking guy you work with, right?”
Again, I nod.
“Is he the manager of that location?” she asks about the Wrench Kings she drops me off and picks me up at daily.
“No,” I say quickly, knowing that this could be my opportunity but as quick as it comes, it goes.
“Do you guys come here a lot?”
“He brought me here to sober up. The food they have here is fucking amazing and way more expensive than the typical post-booze Taco Bell binges, but so fucking worth it. I swear to god, I’d eat a plate here, drink some Gatorade, and feel like a human again.”
She looks up at the sign again and the street lights drift into the cab, tossing gentle waves of yellow against her skin. The side of her neck is illuminated, and god, I swear that curve is just as sweet as her hips and tits. All of her is edible, and my dick agrees because it hardens between my legs.
“It’s awesome. They make the food in front of you. Like one of those hibachi places.”
“What kind of food is it?” she asks timidly, still analyzing the front of the building.
“Dumplings.”
She looks at me and slowly, a grin takes over. “King-Dum.”
I shrug. “Watching them make dumplings kind of took me out of my fucked up headspace, then eating them? So fucking good. Like,” I bring my fingertips to my puckered lips and kiss. “Unbelievable.”
“Can I ask you something?” She worries at the corner of her mouth as she unclips her seatbelt.
“Sure.”
“Why did you choose this place? I’m not saying I don’t want to go here because I would love to see one of the places that helped you get out of your…rough patch.” She turns in the seat, smoothing her hands down her legs. And I don’t know when our hands came apart, but now that we’ve held hands twice, it feels weird not to.
“I’ve had a lot of big feelings inside that place. I guess I’m just looking to have some good ones now, too.”
We share an understanding smile and exit the car, meeting in front at the hood. I wanted to open her door for her, but she didn’t wait. I don’t think it occurred to her that I might. Something tells me Crusty Dusty didn’t do much for her.
I drop my arm along the back of her chair after we’re seated at a small table in the back. Though I haven’t been in here in a few months, Atticus still comes, and he’s kept the owners in the loop on my well-being.
They don’t know who I am aside from the guy who used to come in drunk and eat a plate full of dumplings before crying into a cloth napkin and being dragged out by Atticus. The benefit of that–aside from the sad smiles and clasped hands of relief that I’m not dead–they also don’t really know who I am.
Not that I brought her here because of that.
After we order, two waiters wheel out a portable island, complete with a stainless cooktop and a rack along the side with everything in it. A moment later, a man in a freshly pressed white chef’s coat comes out, smiling at us before he begins.
Watching him make dumplings is like being a kid and watching your dad fix something. Peaceful, calming, and completely relaxing. The man’s hands work from memory, stuffing, pinching, tucking, and rolling until after what feels like a very short amount of time, an entire baking sheet of dumplings has been made. We watch as the three employees–two waitresses and a chef–transfer them into the bamboo dumpling steamer.
They pass the table next to us a few glasses of Saki, and though we aren’t presented with it, they drop a full pitcher of water at our table instead. And I’m appreciative. I could’ve said no to alcohol–I was never an alcoholic. Even though Beck knows I was on a tear last year, I don’t need to refuse booze in front of her to prove the point.
It’s impossible not to study Beck’s face as she watches the chef prepare and then steam various dumpling concoctions. She presses her palms together, driving the tips of her fingers under her chin as she watches. The chef enjoys her awe and slides her a plate, teaching her step by step how to make her own dumpling. Her fingers work the filling and twist the dough, and I envision us at her house, Jett in the high chair, the three of us attempting to make our own dumplings as we have an at-home date night.
* * *
After the dumplingsare done here at the restaurant, we eat and talk. That’s what dates are, but at some point midway through the bomb as hell Jiaozi dumplings I realize that this is the first date I’ve been on that I don’t want to end.