I look at him. Andrew makes a face and his lip curls up in disgust.
“I love cilantro!” I chirp.
She gives him a look. “See? It is only you.”
“Are you one of those people who think it tastes like soap?” I ask him.
“No. I just don’t like it.”
“How can you not like cilantro?” Consuela and I ask in unison. Her voice contains sheer horror, mine pure curiosity.
He responds by pouring us each a generous glass of wine until the bottle is empty. A server appears as if summoned and replaces it immediately with another.
Good thing neither of us is driving.
“Fine. No cilantro. You will have to suffer through a most exquisite polenta dish without the best herb,” Consuela sniffs, her disapproval evident. Those eyes flash with a mock anger that just might hold more anger than teasing.
“I’ll survive,” Andrew says dryly with a wink.
“You have a savage palate,” she retorts, storming off with a wink to me, her hand cradling her glass of wine. Whew. Mockery wins.
“I take it you two are friends,” I say as I drink half my wine. It’s so smooth. And I’m now more nervous from having met the Consuela Arroyo than I am from the fact that this date is going in directions I never fathomed.
“Connie is an old, old friend of Dad’s.”
“Ah.”
“Not that kind of friend.”
“I never thought that. She’s not his type.”
“What does that mean?”
“Doesn’t James stick to dating women who can’t legally purchase alcohol on their own?”
A fine spray of expensive white wine goes flying out of his mouth as he chokes on my words. It’s a beautiful sight, really. A kind of performance art I wish I could capture on film.
“Who told you that?”
“Who do you think?”
“Shannon really thinks that about my dad?”
“Well, between Becky and Stacey and Kelly and—”
He holds up one palm, flat. “Got it. Point taken. Don’t need to hear my dad’s To Do list.”
“More like his Done list.”
He frowns. “Now that you mention it, when my prom date ditched me to go hang out with my dad, I did think it was a little weird.”
I gasp. “That actually happened?”
“No.”
I can’t find anything to throw at him—other than myself—so I just laugh.
“My dad’s not a complete lech, you know.”
“I’m sure he’s a well-rounded, sophisticated man who’s misunderstood.”
“Let’s not go too far. He’s a grey fox who likes his women young.”
“He dates zygotes.”
“He has his reasons.”
Talking about James McCormick isn’t my idea of a fabulous date conversation topic, but there’s a reason why we’ve veered into this territory. “Is everything okay with your father?”
“You mean other than dating women who could star in the Hunger Games movies as tribute?”
“Right.”
Andrew closes his eyes, his shoulders rising, then falling, with a deep breath. “Why is it so easy to talk to you?”
I shrug and drink. The wine is loosening me up.
“Because you are talking to me?”
“You’re not going to let me live that down, are you?”
We both know he’s talking about the past. About ignoring me for so long.
“That depends on what happens next.”
“What do you want to have happen next, Amanda?” Oh, the way my name spills out of his mouth. It’s like being licked up my spine.
Consuela appears at that exact moment and announces, “Polenta with churro in a non-cilantro monstrosity!” and sets down two piping hot cruets on small plates with an overblown flourish that makes us both burst into laughter. His voice is deep and strong, his mirth rumbling and profound. I’m so accustomed to his stoicism that this side of him—which I suspected lingered far beneath the surface—is a joy to experience.
A revelation.
“The salmon is next,” Consuela tosses over her shoulder as she disappears into a curtain of greenery.
I roll the stem of my wine glass between my fingers.
“I want more of this,” I say with a sigh.
“Polenta?”
“Talking.”
“Just talking?”
I smother my smile with a taste of the food. It’s divine. So is he.
“What about the wedding?” I ask after finishing my first bite.
He pauses, fork in mid-air. “Isn’t that a bit presumptuous? Can we finish our first date before talking about weddings?”
“I meant Shannon and Declan’s wedding.”
He sets down his fork and reaches for his wine, downing the entire glass in a series of gulps that make the thick lines of his neck move like a dancer on stage.
“Of course you did,” he declares, pouring more.
I freeze.
There are so many ways I can interpret that. I decide to play dumb.
“Has Marie talked with you about our roles?”
“Best man and maid of honor. We stand at the front of the church and I give a toast and maybe we dance with each other. You throw a bachelorette party and I hire a bunch of hookers for Declan to get in his last chance and—”
I start coughing. “What?”
“Kidding.”
“You better be.”
“Declan’s too head over heels for Shannon. Worst case, we’ll go to Vegas for some crazy times and he’ll spend half the night blabbering about how great she is.”