Dean pointed to my mouth. “Says the girl who’s notorious for smiling or giggling nervously whenever she’s lying.”
Shit. I covered my mouth.
“Honey, you are too much,” he teased, placing his hand at the small of my back. “Now, let’s get your lying ass inside that deli so I can fight the starvation that’s threatening to take place.”
“This place is insane,” Dean whispered in my ear as we stepped in the door.
The restaurant was packed. Every table was filled, and the line to order reached the door. But I didn’t care. My nostrils had already been seduced by the delicious aromas of freshly baked breads and soups. I’d wait two hours if I had to.
“I know,” I agreed. “But it’s like this all the time.” My eyes scanned the tables for any open seats. “It looks like that woman in the corner is about to get up.”
“Perfect. You grab it. I’ll order,” Dean suggested. “The usual?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Like you even have to ask.”
“Chicken salad. Lettuce. Light mayo. Hold the onion and tomato.”
I nodded. “I swear if you didn’t have an aversion to vaginas, I’d beg you to be my husband.”
He smirked. “Plenty of women are beards to their fabulously gay husbands.”
“Yeah, but we’d fight too much over our clothing budget. You’d shop us out of food and rent money.”
“I bet you wouldn’t be complaining too much when your curvy little ass was decked out in designer duds.”
Laughing, I held up both hands. “Fine. You’ve convinced me. If I reach the age of thirty-five and neither of us is married, I’ll be your beard.”
“Fabulous.” He winked. “Now go snatch a table while I grab the food.”
Since Dean was a diva from way back, I did as I was told. I pretended to mosey around the joint, casually stopping to look at the memorabilia on the walls, but in reality, I was watching some woman with a red turtleneck and Crocs like a hawk. By the time she gathered her trash and was getting ready to hop to her feet, I had strategically placed myself a few feet away from her table, carefully planning my descent onto her chair.
The second Turtleneck’s butt cheeks left the seat, I slid into her place with the finesse of a gazelle. Well, in my head, I looked like a gazelle. The guy whose head I nearly took off with my purse probably would’ve called it more bull in china shop, but whatever. Tomato. Tomahto.
My phone pinged inside the front pocket of my purse.
BAD_Ruck (1:12PM) Question: Is now the time to confess you’re pretty adorable when you get worked up?
TAPRoseNEXT (1:13PM) Egging me on for your own amusement? That’s not very gentlemanly of you.
BAD_Ruck (1:14PM) I can assure you, I’m a gentleman in all the ways that count.
TAPRoseNEXT (1:15PM) Are you flirting with me?
BAD_Ruck (1:16PM) If I am, is it working?
TAPRoseNEXT (1:17PM) A lady never kisses (or flirts) and tells.
BAD_Ruck (1:18PM) Neither does a gentleman.
TAPRoseNEXT (1:19PM): I think you might be BAD news.
BAD_Ruck (1:20PM): BAD in the best kind of way, sweetheart.
TAPRoseNEXT (1:21PM): You’re definitely flirting with me, Ruck.
BAD_Ruck (1:22PM): You’ve got a keen eye, Rose.
“I’m convinced. You’re sexting someone.”
I glanced up from my phone, meeting Dean’s knowing look. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you think I’m sexting someone?”
“The fact that you’re smiling like a loon and haven’t noticed I’ve been sitting here for a good five minutes with our food.”
He had a point. I was too wrapped up in BAD_Ruck’s responses to notice anything else. I couldn’t deny, the man intrigued me. But I also couldn’t deny that if I didn’t set my phone down and give Dean my undivided attention, it might be grounds for a full-on catfight.
TAPRoseNEXT (1:23PM): I’ve got a growling stomach and an impatient friend who’s staring at me from across the table. Rain check (on the flirting)?
I set my phone on the table, eyeing the goodness set before me. The aroma of chicken salad and greasy French fries called my name. “This looks like heaven ready to explode in my mouth.”
“That’s what Neil said last night when he was taking off my navy Gucci dress slacks.”
My hands stopped at the halfway point of sandwich-thrusting into my mouth.
“Simply stating ‘my pants’ would have been sufficient. And who the hell is Neil?”
“Sir Sucks-A-Lot,” Dean said, taking a bite of his Greek salad. “And honey, those weren’t just any pants. They were Gucci’s twill blended wool. And they make my ass look fabulous.”
“I guess that explains why Neil was taking off your pants in the first place.”
Dean grinned. “Truer words have never been spoken.”
A jolting bump forced the sandwich to fall from my hands and land half open on the kitschy diner table. What in the ever-loving hell? If Turtleneck was coming back for her seat, it was about to go down.