“Did he do it?” I ask.
“It’s not my job to know whether he or she did it. It’s my job to make sure they get effective counsel and their rights are upheld. Guilt or innocence is irrelevant.”
“You mean you would defend a serial killer? Some Ted Bundy?type murderer?” I ask, intrigued by her outlook.
“Yes,” she says without hesitation.
“What? How could you say that? Do you know how many women he killed?”
Natalie turns toward me. “Yes, I know how many women he is presumed to have killed. And even if he did kill those women, he had the legal right to counsel. Although you know Ted Bundy defended himself?”
“Your eyes light up when you talk about your work,” I notice. “It’s so cute. Even when you’re talking about defending serial killers.”
She smiles and shrugs. “It’s what I’m passionate about. No matter how many lawyer jokes you try to throw my way.”
I laugh out loud. “I have plenty.”
“I bet you do.”
I park out front of the restaurant, and she smiles widely when she sees where we are. “I think I’m on a date with the only man in the world who actually listens.”
I laugh again, and get out to open her door, offering her my hand. “I’m ready to try your favorite meal.”
“How much spice can you handle?” she asks, as we walk hand in hand to the entrance.
“A fair bit.”
“Good.”
The waiter sits us down, and we order drinks while browsing the menu. “I still can’t believe you brought me here,” she says, the menu covering her mouth as she looks at it.
“Why? Anything you like, of course you’re going to get.”
She puts the menu down and looks me in the eye, a small smile playing on her lips. “Do those lines work on all women?”
“That depends. Are they working on you?”
She smiles. “Only if they don’t sound so cheesy.”
“I mean everything I say.”
And I do.
I don’t think she knows the hold she has over me.
Maybe it’s best that she doesn’t.
Chapter Eleven
Natalie
I’m trying not to give away how damn impressed I am at this man, because it will show how many losers I have been going on dates with prior to this. He’s set the standard high, that’s for sure. Men have brought me flowers before, but they’ve never bothered to find out or ask what my favorite ones are, and no one has brought me to my favorite restaurant. He doesn’t even know if he will like the food here, but because I do, he’s here. It’s very sweet and thoughtful.
The food arrives, the giant bowl of crab curry, steamed rice and dal to go with it. We both thank the waiter and then look at each other, and the food.
“How do we eat this?” he asks, serving some crab on my plate, and then some for himself.
“With our hands,” I reply, picking up a crab and showing him how it’s done. “See, you have to break it open like this. It’s going to be messy.”