“Oh.” Her gaze fell to her soup. “What are the restrictions?”
“No meat. No nuts.”
Relief streaked across her expression. “I don’t like nuts anyway—”
The waiter hadn’t finished. “No shellfish, dairy, gluten, or citrus. Would you care for more soup?”
She shuddered. “No, thanks.”
The guy took off for another table as I lowered back into my seat. Jesus. His list had ruled out pretty much everything that made food taste like food. She eyed my soup with envy, then tried to disguise it.
“Not to sound like a huge dick,” I said, “but I cannot wait to see what he brings you next.”
-3-
KAYLA
Jay had a look of Christmas-morning anticipation as the waiter set down my entrée plate.
I stared at the meal that looked like it had already been eaten once, and was unable to keep the dread from my voice. “What. Is. That?”
“Tofurkey, mashed eggplant, and quinoa.” The waiter said it like it should have been obvious.
My mouth went dry. “Toe-what?”
“Tofu with a turkey-flavor additive.” Then, he was gone.
The brown circle of tofu on the side of my plate was . . . haunting. I couldn’t look away.
“Holy shit.” Jay’s deep voice broke the spell. “I gotta try that. No way it tastes as bad as it sounds.”
He didn’t wait for permission. We both readied our forks, dug into the brown substance, and exchanged a look before taking the plunge that wordlessly said, “See you on the other side.”
The texture wasn’t what I expected. It was smooth, and sort of silky, and . . . oh my God! It was gritty. It stuck to my teeth like glue. The plastic-y aftertaste. Horror overtook me and was mirrored perfectly on Jay’s handsome face.
“What do I do?” I choked out through a mouthful of the glop.
“Never thought I’d say this, but for the love of God, don’t swallow!”
We dove for our napkins. It was rude, but I couldn’t help it. I tried to spit it out discreetly, then washed it down with as much of my rum and Coke as possible. The syrupy drink and tofurkey combo was almost worse. Almost. The grainy sweetness lingered, and I took another long gulp from my tall glass. Beside me, Jay chugged his beer, and I gazed at him out of the corner of my eye.
His sandy-blond hair was untamed, falling into his eyes, and he had a day or two of scruff darkening his jaw. It gave him just enough edge to keep me from labeling his looks as all-American. Like a sexier, blonder version of Jason Witten. But those eyes, though. His baby blues were pale against his golden skin, and the irises were ringed with a dark sapphire, making them pop.
His eyes were mesmerizing.
There was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t place it.
He was also more than a foot taller than I was, and his frame had been cut from stone. I’d bounced off his chest earlier, and unless he was wearing a steel undershirt, the guy was ripped. Just looking at him gave me a flutter in my belly, or “the vapors,” as my grandmother called it.
Oh, yeah. Jay definitely gave me the vapors.
I swallowed the last sip of my drink and prayed the tofurkey taste went down with it. “That was close.”
“You’re telling me.” He was serious. “That’s got to be what death tastes like.”
Once again, he tried to offer his meal to me, or at least to share. Wasn’t it enough he seemed smart, was funny, and good-looking? Adding manners in wasn’t playing fair, especially after I’d just spit in my napkin.
To appease him, I cut off a tiny bite of his chicken and ate it, but he stared at me with horror.
“What?” I asked.
“Pretty sure that chicken wasn’t vegetarian.”
“You think it was a meat-eating chicken?” I eyed him innocently. When his eyebrows pulled together, I added, “I had three cousins get married this summer. I wasn’t sure I could do another dry piece of chicken covered in mystery sauce. I checked the vegetarian option, thinking it’d be pasta or something.”
“Ah.” Something like relief flashed through his eyes.
I wanted to ask him about football, but Marcy’s challenge pounded in my brain. I certainly didn’t want to make this delicate little creature cry. Although he seemed the opposite of delicate and little.
Instead, we talked about his internship, where he explained he was little more than an IT slave, lugging desktop computers from one workstation to another. I almost blurted out in a husky voice that I’d let him install my computer anytime, but managed to keep the blush-worthy statement confined to my brain. Maybe the tofurkey had been laced with something other than just turkey-flavor additives.
Not talking about football was more of a challenge than I expected, but I stayed strong. The food was a helpful distraction. After the table had been served cake, the waiter plopped a dish of green ooze in front of me.