“About once a week. I wouldn’t say they know me by name, but they certainly know my face! It’s a lovely thing, I’ve found, to go somewhere that you’re greeted and welcomed when you walk in the door.” Her smile was soft, reminiscent.
As if cued, a large, rotund, red-faced man in a white apron spotted them and waved vigorously. “My friend!” he called to the pair. “You have company! This is exciting!” As they came up to him, the burly cook dragged Summer into an enveloping hug, then thrust his hand out to Fenrir and boomed, “You are a lucky man, sir! This lady, she has discriminating taste!”
Before Fenrir could offer much of a response to Summer he was outdone by a rather booming accent. He looked to see who could cause such volume and his eyes were met by a stout man. He seemed to be dressed as a cook, and seemed to know Summer very well. Fenrir grinned to himself as he watched the little scene play out. He looked down at the outstretched hand and accepted it, giving it a firm shake. He nodded. “I should imagine she is. With beauty such as hers, she must attract many suitors.” He flashed a smile to her, dropping the man’s hand after the handshake was done.
Summer put her hands to her cheeks, feigning a blush. Michelangelo bustled the two of them to a table, patting Summer on the shoulder, and said, “I’ll get you a candle, more romantic.”
“Um,” Summer started, but it was too late. She looked across the table at Fenrir. “He thinks you’re my date.” She covered her eyes with her hand. “I’m sorry. He’ll be digging at you all evening now.”
Fenrir blinked. “He thinks I am a date? Your date?” He turned around, though he didn’t know what he was looking for. He returned to a faced-forward position, staring at the table cloth before looking at her with curious blue eyes. “Is it a bad thing that he thinks thusly?” He took her warning and upped his guard. He was going to seem like a rather odd man, that was for sure.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind if it was the truth, but since it’s not … it’s a bit awkward.” She tipped her head to one side, studying him, then smiled gently. “But this trip is not about me! It’s about what you want. So just ignore Michelangelo, okay?”
Picking up the menu cards, encased in plastic to protect against spills, she chewed on the side of her finger and pondered out loud. “Now, do I want my usual thing, or shall I try something new?”