“Well, what did you have in mind?”
The wheels spun in his head for about thirty seconds. “Morgan with the Big Organ?”
I rolled my eyes.
“You can fact check under the table at any time.” He winked.
I continued to try to get to know him, even though all roads led to between his legs. “Any pets?”
“I have a dog.”
Remembering the little dog from my snooping in his cell phone, I said, “What kind of a dog? You seem like the type to have a big scary one. Like a Great Dane or a Neapolitan mastiff. Something representative of what you keep goading me into looking at under the table. You know, big dog, big d—”
“The size of a dog is not a phallic symbol,” he interrupted.
So, it was his cute little dog in the pictures.
“Really? I think I read a study once that said men unknowingly purchase dogs that represent the true size of their penis.”
“My dog was my mother’s. She passed away when he was a puppy, twelve years ago. ”
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “Thank you. Blackie is a West Highland terrier.”
“Blackie? Is he black?” The little dog in the photo had been white.
“He’s white, actually.”
“So why Blackie? To be facetious? Or is there another reason for the name?”
His response was clipped. “There’s no other reason.”
Just then, the waitress served our dinner. I ordered the Bonito Shut fish entree, basically because the menu said it was for adventurous eaters only. And Graham ordered Sashimi. Both our dishes looked more like art when they arrived.
“I hate to eat it; it’s so beautiful.”
“I have the opposite problem. It’s so beautiful; I can’t wait to eat it.” His smirk told me his comment had nothing to do with his fancy looking dinner.
I shifted in my seat.
We both dug into our meals. Mine was incredible. The fish literally melted in your mouth. “Mmm…this is so good.”
Graham surprised me by reaching over and forking a piece from my plate. He didn’t seem like a plate sharer. I watched him swallow, and he gave a small nod of approval. Then I reached over and forked a piece of his meal. He smiled.
“So. You’ve told me about Mitch the Itch and Funeral boy. Do you date a lot?”
“I wouldn’t say a lot. But I’ve met my fair share of assholes.”
“They were all assholes?”
“Not all of them. Some were nice guys but just didn’t work for me.”
“Didn’t work for you? How so?”
I shrugged. “I just didn’t feel that way about them. You know. Like nothing more than a friend.”
“And do you have any more dates in your forthcoming calendar?”
“My forthcoming calendar?” I let out a ladylike snort. “You go from dirty talk to sounding like a snobby college professor pretty easily.”
“Does that annoy you?”
I thought about my answer for a moment. “I wouldn’t say annoy. More like amuse.”
“I’m amusing?”
“Yes. Yes, you are.”
“Pretty sure I’ve never been called amusing before.”
“I’d bet that’s because most people only see the asshole you show on the outside.”
“That implies that I’m more than just an asshole on the inside.”
Our eyes locked when I responded. “For some reason, I believe that you are. That there is more to you than just an asshole with a sexy exterior.”
“You think I’m sexy.” He grinned, full of himself.
“Of course I do. I mean look at you. You have a mirror. I’m guessing you figured that out all by yourself by now. It must not be difficult to fill up the evenings on your forthcoming calendar.”
“Are you always such a wiseass?”
“Pretty much.”
He shook his head and grumbled something. “Speaking of forthcoming calendars. I would like yours cleared of any more dates. Other than me, of course.”
“We’re halfway through our first date, and you’re telling me, not asking me, to not date other people?”
He straightened in his seat. “You told me you weren’t going to sleep with me. That we were going to date and get to know each other. Does that still stand?”
“It does.”
“Well, if I’m not fucking you, no one else should be either.”
“How romantic.”
“It’s a deal breaker for me.”
“And that would go both ways? You wouldn’t be seeing anyone else either?”
“Of course.”
“Let me think about it.”
His eyebrows jumped in surprise. “You need to think about it?”
“I do. I’ll get back to you on it.” It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the first time that Graham J. Morgan was not getting his way with a woman.
Hours later, my phone buzzed in my bag. It was Delia checking on me since she knew I was out on a first date. I shot off a quick text to let her know I was safe and glanced at the time on my phone. We had been sitting in the restaurant for more than three hours. It wasn’t lost on me that it was the first time I had even thought about my phone.
“Well, you were right about one thing.”
“You’ll have to be more specific. I’m right about most things.”