We’re seated in a dark, cozy table in a back room, far enough away from the other diners that I can actually hear the quiet classical music playing overhead. A quick look at the menu has me wishing I remembered high school French better—the only thing in English I can recognize is the restaurant’s address. Why even bother trying to read it? I close the menu after giving it a quick onceover.
Meredith gives me an amused glance. “Already know what you want?”
“I’m going to let you order for me,” I say. “See if you know what I’d like.”
“I think I have a pretty good idea,” she purrs.
Beneath the table, one of her feet brushes up my calf. Her toes tickle over my skin; she must’ve kicked off her heels when she sat down. The touch makes my arms pimple into goose bumps, and delight shivers down
