“Two for Grant,” he stated sharply.
His tone took me aback. It seemed a little rude for my taste, but I let it slide.
“Right this way.”
We followed the hostess to a table right next to a baby grand piano and Harvey planted his feet. “Not here.”
“I’m sorry sir, but we’re fully booked tonight and this is our last table,” the hostess explained as she glanced around the room.
“Do you know who I am?” Harvey barked.
“Mr. Grant?” she shyly muttered, clearly not knowing who the fuck he was other than the name he’d given for the reservation.
“Yes I fucking am, and I demand to see your manager!” he yelled.
Putting my hand on his arm, I sweetly smiled at the trembling girl. “This table is perfectly fine. We don’t need to see your manager.”
I took my seat, waiting for Harvey to follow suit.
“I can’t believe this,” he complained.
“I can’t believe you.” I rolled my eyes. “Maybe this was a mistake.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just nervous,” he explained. “Can we start over?”
I crossed my arms over my chest, letting out a slow breath. “All right. Hi, I’m Harper.”
I goofily reached my hand out over the table.
Laughing, Harvey took it. “It’s a pleasure, Harper. I’m Harvey Grant.”
Small talk commenced with the usual chitchat. We were both locals, born and raised, and we’d gone to neighboring, rival high schools. He’d studied art history in college and had taken over his family’s business.
Once the wine was poured, we had run out of things to talk about.
I was so thankful when the server came up to take our orders—anything to stop the painful droning of Harvey going on and on about the ebbs and flows of art value.
As I opened my mouth to order, he cut me off. “I will have the braised beef short ribs, and the lady will have the vindaloo chicken.”
I glared at him before speaking up. “No, theladywill have the duck. Thank you.”
I handed my menu to the server, waiting for him to walk away. “Don’t do that,” I bit out.
He tensed his shoulders. “I thought it was customary for the man to order for his lady.”
I couldn’t believe this guy. “Let’s get something straight: I amnotyour lady. This is our first date. You have no idea what I like or dislike when it comes to food yet. How dare you assume I need someone to order for me.”
He rolled his eyes, plopping his elbows on the table—another pet peeve of mine. “Oh, I see. You’re one of those liberal chicks who thinks she’s too good to have a man’s help.”
“I think this date is over.” I stood up, grabbed my bag, and marched away.
“What? Am I too much of a man for you, hippie chick?” he yelled after me from his seat.
I wasn’t ready to admit defeat yet, so I stomped up to the lounge bar.
Huffing onto a stool, I ordered a gin and tonic and the duck for myself. A terrible date wasn’t going to stop me from having the dinner I wanted.
“So we meet again,” a vaguely familiar voice stated as the chair next to mine was pulled out.