"And you're not exactly that type of guy."
"You're stereotyping me again."
She laughs. "Yeah. A little." She picks up her menu and runs her fingers over its edges. "But still. You could live in Venice Beach. Closer to the shop."
"It's more expensive there."
"Is that it?"
"Mostly." I like being this close to the beach. And far away from everyone else. And, hell, I like the quiet. There's enough noise at the shop all day.
She turns her gaze to her menu. Presses her lips together. "You think it has something to do with growing up in Beverly Hills?"
Probably. I'm used to this kind of suburban paradise in the city, families and expensive cars everywhere. But I'm not that far into Santa Monica. My building is all young professionals and artists. Well, artists who can afford the obscene rent.
"Shit." She bites her lip. "I'm doing it again."
"Iris the shrink."
"At least I caught it." She closes her menu, sets it on the table, and looks to me. "No more. I promise."
"I don't believe you."
"You shouldn't. I will. I'm awful."
"You are." I lean a little closer. The moonlight brings out her blue eyes. "But I like it."
She draws circles on the menu with her pointer finger. "I'll tone it down. I swear."
I lean back. "We'll see."
"Yeah." She copies my posture. Hangs her arm over her chair. Adopts a disaffected expression.
My laugh feels fuller than usual. "You really nail me."
"It's the other way around."
"That's cheesy."
"Still."
The server stops at our table. We order dinner and hand over our menus.
She doesn't get a drink.
I follow her lead.
It's not unusual. Especially at a place without a full bar. Not everyone is into wine—fuck knows I'm not.
But still.
It seems intentional.
I straighten my back. Move closer. "How are your steps going?"
Her cheeks flush. "Okay, I guess. I feel embarrassed even thinking about it."
"Then why do it?"