“What is this place? Besides perfect, I mean.”
“The Ocean Club. I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it,” she breathed.
A waitress led them to a table by the window and decanted chilled sparkling water into goblets garnished with lime. Britt took a sip, and it was cool and fizzy, bright with the flavor of lime. The menu was sumptuous with a variety of dishes, but Britt couldn’t concentrate, distracted as she was by the romantic atmosphere. She found herself gazing at Jack unabashedly.
“Do you see anything you like?” he asked indicating the menu.
“Yes,” she said absently, looking only at him. Then she giggled nervously and mumbled something about chicken.
After they had ordered, he asked her what she thought of the place.
“It’s gorgeous. Like, I’d work here just to get to look at it. You had to fob in. I’m guessing it’s a club for rich boys...”
“Not quite. I’m one of the investors, and I designed the logo and most of their website. To join, you have to pay an exorbitant membership fee, half of which goes directly to a charity that provides clean water access in rural Africa. It was our finest moment on the concept...exclusive waterfront club, clean water for all,” he said with a smile.
“That’s amazing,” she said, sipping her water.
“I’m proud of it. There’s not much else I’ve done that I’m this proud of. I know it’s arrogant, but I wanted to bring you here because it’s sort of my own.”
“Show off,” she said playfully.
“Yes. I’m trying to win your approval. Is it working?”
“That depends on how the chicken is.”
“You ordered a steak.”
“Then you don’t have a chance because I won’t know how the chicken is...how can I know if I approve or not?” she said sternly before laughing.
“I can tell them to change your order.”
“No way. I hate chicken.”
“Who hates chicken? I thought women lived on salad and skinless chicken.”
“Not this one. I eat food,” she said. “Speaking of which, is there no bread in this place? Is it low carb or something?”
“Bread is by request. Would you like some?”
“Yes. Please,” she said.
He signaled the waitress who appeared with delicate slices of seed bread. Britt ate one and started on a second.
“It’s an issue of operating costs. The bread thing is. With so many Paleo dieters and gluten-free eaters, it makes sense to make it by request only. Why make all that bread when no one wants it?”
“Uh, so I can eat it,” she said, smiling. “Those anti-gluten people don’t know what they’re missing.”
“To think you’re trapped in accounting when you’re a natural at generating slogans. You may find yourself reassigned to marketing, young lady,” he joked.
“I think the gluten mafia needs to get a sense of humor about themselves, yes. And if you want my line for your advertising, go ahead. Let’s launch your restaurant into the stratosphere on the strength of a pro-gluten stance.”
“You’re quick,” he observed. “I like that. I think I’ve been with the wrong crowd up until now.”
“Would that be your investor crowd, your musician crowd or your graphic design crowd?”
“All of the above. See, my dad has said all along I can’t commit. I’ve got to have too many irons in the fire and all that.”