I pull my hands away and hold out the napkin. “Here. Put this on the burns.”
Pat shakes his head. “I’m all right. It’s nothing.”
“Good.”
I focus on my food and take way more time than necessary to assemble a single fajita. This is the most carefully crafted fajita in the history of fajitas. Culinary schools could use it as an example for students. It still breaks apart in the middle when I take a bite. Juice runs down my arm, and before I think about it, I drag my tongue over the drip before it can reach my elbow.
When I look up, Pat is watching, open-mouthed, his espresso eyes turning to a darker roast right in front of me. “You missed a bit,” he says, shifting toward me.
Oh, no. I’ve seen this before in the movies. It starts with You’ve got a little something right here, and the guy goes to wipe whipped cream or some other sexy food （it’s ALWAYS sexy food） from the corner of the heroine’s mouth. Then, BAM! It’s one of those kissing scenes with the swelling music and the heavy breathing.
I grab a napkin, practically scrubbing all my exposed skin from any hint of food. Those CSI guys and their little kit would find nothing on me.
Well. Nothing but napkin fibers.
“I’ve got it. See? Totally clean now. Like a newborn baby.” I make a face. “Actually, newborns aren’t very clean. They also don’t sleep more than two to three hours at a time, so that whole sleeping like a baby thing is some kind of conspiracy theory.”
Pat tilts his head, looking amused. “Did you think I was going to … lick your arm clean?”
Maybe. But it sounds ridiculous now that he’s said it out loud. Also, Pat shouldn’t be allowed to say the word lick ever again. It’s way too visceral, too sensual.
“I was just going to offer you my napkin,” he says. “The way you offered yours to me.”
“I don’t want to be your napkin buddy. I’ve got enough of those already.”
Pat just stares, blinking in confusion, because what even is a napkin buddy? And what does it mean if I have a lot of them? Fantastic. Now I’m the napkin hussy of Sheet Cake.
Pat coughs, and I think he’s hiding laughter behind his hand, because his shoulders are shaking. Whatever. Laugh away. See if I share napkins with you again.
I decide to save myself more embarrassing messes and eat my fajita from a plate with a fork, which is just wrong. But it will require no tongues and no napkins and no use of the word lick.
Of course, just as I think this, I drop a caramelized onion in my lap.
“About what I said,” Pat starts.
“We can pretend you didn’t say anything,” I tell him, stabbing a piece of beef with my fork. Perhaps a little more violently than necessary.
Pat sighs. “I know you don’t like accepting help, or even admitting you need it—”
I set my fork down and curl my hands into fists in my lap. “After all this time, you can waltz in and think you know me?”
My words are harsh, but my tone is calm and cucumbers-on-ice cool. I could be talking about mathematical equations. All my eye contact is reserved for my tortilla, which is the kind of date I like: it keeps its mouth shut.
“I’d like to think I do know you.”
“And I’d like to think I could pick the winning lotto numbers. Doesn’t mean I can.”
Pat frowns, and I realize he hasn’t touched anything on his plate, while I’ve blown through two fajitas. Albeit with a fork, but they end up in the same place. Is the man even going to eat? Or is he planning on letting his enchiladas get cold while running his mouth? That’s a waste, right there. In a show of protest, I pick up my fork and resume eating.