To my surprise, Vice agreed without putting up a fight. He waited downstairs while I ran up to shower, throw on something comfortable, and make myself look a little more presentable.
About twenty minutes later, I locked my apartment, left my SUV there, and climbed into Vice’s truck. A few minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of a small restaurant I’d driven past more times than I could count but had never actually stopped at. I was glad it wasn’t one of those fancy places. After spending twelve hours in scrubs, the last thing I wanted was to feel underdressed
“You ever been here?” I shook my head. “The food good as fuck.”
“It better be.”
A smug smile crossed his face as he held the door open for me. “You complain a lot.”
“I do not.”
He mumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like,yes the fuck you do, making me roll my eyes as I walked inside.
Dinner turned out to be a lot easier than our first lunch.
Maybe it was because we’d already gotten past the awkward stage of trying to figure each other out. Or maybe it was because, for once, neither of us talked about Sam, the shooting, or the people who’d been watching me.
For almost an hour, we were just… normal.
Vice told me about one of his restaurants nearly shutting down during its first year after trusting the wrong manager to run it. In return, I told him about my first week as a nurse and the elderly patient who cussed me out for nearly twenty minutes because I wouldn’t let her leave after surgery.
Instead of taking my side, Vice claimed the woman probably just wanted to go home and hinted that maybe I’d gotten on her nerves. I called him ridiculous and told him that was probably why people didn’t like him.
According to Vice…
People loved him.
The confidence in that man needed to be studied.
By the time our food was gone, we’d bounced from one random topic to another without either of us forcing the conversation. I found out he hated mayonnaise with an unnecessary amount of passion, which I told him was childish. Then, somehow, he found out I couldn’t swim.
The look he gave me made it seem like I’d confessed to robbing a bank.
“You serious?”
“I’ve made it twenty-eight years just fine.”
“So far.”
I pointed my fork at him.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Put that ‘so far’ mess on me.”
He leaned back in his chair, completely ignoring my warning.
“I’m teaching you.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “No, you’re not.”
“You scared of the water?”
“No…”
“You can’t swim.”