Must Date The Chef

|| 24.

Clean slate? What does that mean? I try not to think too much about that as the waiter reappears with my order. He gives a curt bow, takes his leave and I am reminded of a time from long ago but with Paul as the waiter. Our eyes meet in that moment, he rubs his hands over mine and I gulp, my lips moving into a small, shy smile when he flashes me a grin. I blink, my eyes lower to the food, I need to get a grip around him.

Seated across me with his hands back to the plastic table, Paul's eyes follow my every move with that same grin plastered on his lips. He seems happy and it makes me happy too. My hands tremble under his intense scrutiny as I make to pick a cutlery, I bring them under the table to rub over my knees. I am happy to be here and I have no idea why I am nervous but I am, my insides are in a knot and my nerves are on edge.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I am the only one who made an order. The only thing he requested was a bottle of warm water. I am never one to shy away from eating in public the same way I will if I am in the comfort of my home and the giant chicken in my plate will demand that same enthusiasm. But this date doesn't need me to lose my table manners. It feels like a date with my crush, which is what he is so I have to be on my best behaviour, for now.

Picking up the spoon, I twirl it and wonder if I will have to ask them for a bowl of water to devour the fried goodness in my plate but I don't let the thought bother me for long. If Paul gets uncomfortable seeing me eat chicken like that, he will have to get an absorber because he will be shocked pretty often by my eating habits. I love chicken.

"How did you know we were at the club?"

"Chi," comes his response. I nod as I take a bite from the fried rice, not in the least bit surprised. Our table grows quiet with each bite and my eyes roam the place.

The restaurant is near-empty, bright lights line up in a single row on the ceiling and the television plastered to the wall is the only source of noise. My reflection on the window stares back at me, I freeze and my teeth sink into my lower lip when Paul's gaze doesn't wander from my lips. He sighs, I sigh and hesitate in taking another bite.

"Did you get the ticket?" He stops midway into cutting my chicken into bits. "The one from Chi, for the cooking competition."

It takes less than a second for his eyes to widen in understanding. "Yes, thank you."

His lack of enthusiasm has my appetite going on a downward slide, I take a few more bites of the rice and push the plate aside.

"You shouldn't waste food," Paul comments.

"I'm not." I stab the chicken, insert one of the strips into my mouth with his eyes centred on me. "See, I'm not wasting food."

My statement is met by a chuckle, he gives me a noncommittal nod with his lips pursed and I stick my tongue out. We go quiet again while I resume eating and I make sure to clear every single grain of rice in my plate.

"Have they fixed the venue?" I ask, knowing full well he hasn't agreed to go for the competition. I know he will win, I trust his cooking capabilities will take him far.

A corner of his lips lift. "I don't know. I'm not sure I will go." He takes my hands in his, his fingers slightly grazing my knuckles. "I do appreciate the gesture. Thank you."

The smile I offer him is weak and I don't bother to tell him I had to pull a few strings because I got the ticket days after the sales had closed. I nod, he brings my hand to his mouth and begins peppering kisses all over my knuckles until I relax in my chair.

"Why don't you want to try?" I finally ask and cross my arms. My voice takes on the same tone I use when I am trying to convince an investor to do business with us, "It will be good for you." His face shows he's no longer listening and I lean across the table to cover his hand with mine. "You will get funds to start something of your own."