Just One Look
Copyright© 2025 by DB86
Chapter 8
Saturday, six p.m. sharp, I walked into the restaurant. The interior looked just as I remembered—brick facade, warm lighting glowing through the windows, and the unmistakable smell of garlic and tomato sauce drifting through the air like a siren song. Just breathing in felt like cheating on my diet.
Rachel was waiting by the entrance, leaning against the brick wall with her arms crossed and her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She looked up, saw me, and smiled. Not the peppy, over-the-top kind. Just soft and real, like she was genuinely glad I’d shown up.
She wore jeans and a loose dark green blouse with some sequins.
“Hey, stranger,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Look at you. Clean shirt, real shoes. You’re even on time. I’m impressed. Are we sure this isn’t a date?”
I gave her a crooked smile. “Pretty sure you said it wasn’t. It’s not every day I go on a totally-not-a-date with my totally-not-interested gym friend.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was something else behind it, uncertainty, maybe. Or anticipation. “Let’s get inside before you say something even more awkward.”
Kat, the hostess, led us to a small corner booth near the back, where the lights were dim and the noise from the bar faded to a soft hum.
The lighting was low, they were playing soft jazz, the kind that made you feel like you should be sipping something expensive while pretending not to be staring at the breadbasket.
A waitress with a high ponytail appeared at our table. “Evening, I’m Mary. Water? Wine?”
“Water for me,” Rachel said quickly. “I’m trying to lose weight.”
“Same,” I said, ignoring the menu section labeled Pasta Fantasia that was calling my name. “And we don’t need the bread basket.”
Mary scribbled something, took the basket, gave us a smile of encouragement, and walked off.
Rachel opened her menu with purpose. “Okay, so fish or salad. That’s what we agreed on, right?”
“You promised,” I said. “I just agreed to show up.”
“Are you trying to back out of the deal?”
“I’m trying to survive the smell of garlic bread without making eye contact with the pasta menu.”
She grinned. “So, you’re getting the ravioli?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it.”
“Hard not to. Tony’s stuffed ravioli with truffle cream sauce is legendary. He comes from an Italian family that used to cook for celebrities.”
She laughed, then caught me looking. Her eyes lingered on mine a bit longer than usual.
“Then get it,” she said, shrugging. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I’m not Derek.”
“You kind of are,” I muttered. “You yell less, but you have that same chipper, motivational energy.”
Rachel leaned in, mock-serious. “Pete. I did not drag you here just to sabotage your progress. But if you think ordering fish proves something to me, you’re wrong. I didn’t come here to judge your dinner. I came here to have a good time with you.”
I studied her face. Nothing but openness. If she was faking it, she was either a professional actress or genuinely ... kind, which made less sense.
Mary came back to take our orders. Rachel asked for grilled salmon with vegetables. I caved and ordered the grilled swordfish, still a step up from salad, but not the ravioli. Mary nodded like she was silently approving of our choices.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.