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Getting here early was a good idea; this menu is ridiculously long. The fact that my date also got here early is just a fluke; I don’t have to take it as a good or bad sign for this first meeting.
I steal another glance at him; yep, his onyx curls and sharp jawline are still gorgeous. I wiggle in my seat as surreptitiously as possible, unable to totally contain my excitement.
“What do you like?”
I scan until I find sweet & sour pork and start to smile. But, oh no, I can’t.
He sees my frown. “Something wrong?”
I shrug, nervous my weird brain will scare him off. He slowly and patiently coaxes the reason out of me.
“Wrong number,” I grumble. “I can’t order something with a thirteen in it.”
“Superstitious?”
“No, just autistic.”
“That’s cool.”
He has dimples and I’m already down bad. I order the orange chicken instead. Lucky 38, lucky me? He orders the beef with broccoli. Double sevens! Even better, he checks with me by coyly arching one eyebrow before confirming it to the waiter. Handsome, considerate and apparently into me as well? I think this might actually be my last first date ever.