Page 5 of Comforting the Grump
I willed myself not to shrink away, to not apologize for being the vibrant swath of paint on an otherwise muted canvas. This was me, in all my glory, and if Luke—or anyone else—couldn’t handle that, they weren’t worth my time. It had taken me years to accept that, but dammit, I wouldn’t compromise.
“Great spot by the window,” I said breezily, sliding into my seat, determined to keep the mood light and inviting. “You get to watch the world go by.”
I flashed him my best smile, which I hoped radiated friendliness and chased away any awkwardness lingering between us.
Luke chuckled, a sound that eased some of the tightness in my chest. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, his gaze flicking out the window before meeting mine again. There was still a hint of reservation there, but I brushed it aside, unwilling to let it dampen our start. Maybe this could still be saved.
“Have you been here before?” I asked, leaning forward, my elbows finding a home on the edge of the table, bringing me just a breath closer to him.
“Once or twice,” Luke admitted. “It’s nice, cozy.”
“Cozy” wasn’t precisely how I’d describe myself or my tastes, but if it was common ground we were seeking, then cozy itwould be. I gave an enthusiastic nod, agreeing wholeheartedly. “It certainly has a lot of atmosphere.”
As the waiter approached, I turned my attention to him, ordering a glass of red wine—a Chianti, robust and full of life, and dare I say, like me?
“And what about you, Luke? What’s your poison?” His eyes traced the menu, and I silently urged him to reveal something personal, a clue into the man behind the polite smiles.
“I’ll go with the same,” he decided after a moment. A spark of triumph ignited within me. Was it a sign that this was still salvageable? Perhaps too soon to tell, but it was a start, and every story worth telling had to begin somewhere.
“Excellent choice.” I let my fingers dance fleetingly over his hand as I withdrew my menu. It was a move laden with flirtation, a habit I couldn’t seem to shake. But that, too, was me.
“Should we order some ciabatta with olive oil?” Luke asked. It was the first time he’d taken the initiative. Maybe he was warming up to me?
“I never say no to bread.”
He grinned. “Same.”
We both perused the menu, and my choice was quickly made. With the ciabatta as an appetizer and pana cotta for dessert, I wouldn’t need a big entrée, so a half-portion of the chicken marsala would suffice.
The server came to bring us our wine, and we both put in our order. Luke was going for the chicken parmesan, rarely a favorite of mine because the chicken was often dry and overcooked. The downside of being a chef was that I tended to be critical of the food prepared for me. Occupational hazard.
“Here’s to new experiences.” I raised my glass.
“I’ll toast to that.” Luke gently clinked his glass against mine, and his smile was genuine now. Was I winning him over?
“How did you become a chef?” he asked.
“My mom is a great cook. Not professionally or anything, but she allowed me to help her in the kitchen from when I was young, and I took a liking to it. When I was ten, I could cut vegetables faster and neater than she could. A few years later, I could prepare a five-course dinner without breaking a sweat. So the decision to apply for culinary school was a logical one.”
“And you’re happy where you are now? Or do you dream of owning your own restaurant?” Luke leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table’s edge, his gaze fixed on me. There was no mistaking the spark of interest lighting up the blue depths of his eyes, and my heart did a pirouette.
“Isn’t that every chef’s dream? I do worry about the business part of it though. Finances are not my forte. I’m a creative, not an accountant.”
He nodded. “I can understand that. As a small business owner, I have to say that the administrative side of being a physical therapist is not my favorite.”
I leaned forward. “What is your favorite part?”
Our conversation flowed easily now, both of us sharing stories from our work and our lives. Luke was fully engaged now, but it failed to ignite the spark within me I longed to feel. I sipped my wine, appreciating its boldness while grappling with a sense of detachment. The conversation flowed easily enough, peppered with laughter and shared interests, but it lacked the electric charge of a potential romance.
As Luke spoke about his own dreams, I nodded along, offering words of encouragement while secretly mourning the absence of butterflies in my stomach. He was everything polite society would deem a perfect match—kind, engaging, and attentive—but the chemistry I’d hoped for was stubbornly elusive. Still, I kept trying.
“Then, just as I’m about to serve the dessert, the soufflé collapses like a deflated balloon at a birthday party,” I said,recounting the time I managed to turn a disastrous kitchen mishap into a five-star dessert, demonstrating the fall with a dramatic slump of my shoulders.
Luke chuckled, his eyes alight with amusement. “I take it you managed to salvage the situation?”
“I transformed it into a deconstructed soufflé. Told them it was an avant-garde presentation. They ate it up—literally and figuratively!”
My laughter echoed through the Italian restaurant, a bright counterpoint to the soft clinking of cutlery and murmur of conversations. Luke shared my mirth, and for a moment, I basked in the warmth of shared joy. But that comfort was fleeting, as my peripheral vision caught the less-than-subtle stares from the adjacent tables. My buoyant spirit dipped, and I forced my hands to stillness, clasping them tightly in my lap under the table.