The Boss's Son Box Set

“This is, as you may not have noticed, an Italian restaurant, sir.” The waiter went on. “Is there something else you would like to drink. Tea, perhaps?”

“No. We’ll just order. I’ll have the monkfish with artichokes.”

“Very good. And you, madam?”

“The penne rigate, please,” she said, trying to be polite and order something inexpensive.

“It has gluten,” Chris stage-whispered.

“Yes, I heard. I’m not allergic.”

“Neither am I. Gluten is bad for you. Very unhealthy.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you read?” he hissed.

“Yes, I do. Which is why I’m puzzled by the seeming trend of demonizing gluten.”

“You wouldn’t understand. It’s terrible for your intestines.”

“That’s so romantic,” she snapped.

Their food arrived and she ate hers appreciatively while Chris picked at his.

“There’s rice on this plate. Didn’t he hear me say I was gluten free?”

“I’m fairly certain that everyone heard you. Rice doesn’t have gluten.”

“Are you sure?” he accused as if she were trying to poison him with gluten-filled rice.

“Fairly, yes. Ask the waiter.”

“I’m not going to ask him. He’s obviously a dumbass.”

“A dumbass?”

“Yes. He is,” Chris insisted.

“I’m a little disappointed. I thought you’d have something more original than dumbass to apply to someone in the service industry whom you didn’t care for

.” She said loftily.

“He deserves no better label,” Chris scoffed.

“My pasta is good,” she ventured. Her phone buzzed and she tried to ignore it, wondering if it was Jack, if she should be ashamed for hoping it was him.

Britt realized with a sick lurch of her stomach that the person she most wanted tot talk to and laugh about this ridiculous date was Jack. But she couldn’t tell him about Chris just like she couldn’t tell Marj about Jack. It was disheartening, the way those confusion and misunderstanding sitcom plots were disheartening. She would not check her phone. She would not be that rude, tapping away at her tiny screen while she was on a date, while she shared a meal with someone.

“Go ahead,” Chris suggested.

“What?”

“Check your phone. I know you want to. Is it someone better or is it your friend with a made-up emergency to rescue you?”

“Neither. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t fake emergency someone. It’s juvenile. If I want to leave, I’ll say so, and then I’ll leave. No pretense.”

“I respect that,” he said grudgingly.