The Friend Zone(49)

He held up two fingers to the hostess and turned to me. “You kill me, you know that? On one hand you embrace danger at every turn, and on the other you won’t risk getting bad pancakes. And anyway, I’m buying.”

I shook my head. “No, I’ll pay for myself. We’re not on a date.”

“I know. Don’t worry—I’m not trying to slip a date past you.” He made a face like the idea was crazy. “I’d just like to buy you breakfast. I like feeding you.”

“Why?”

He grinned at me and put his hands on my shoulders. “Because you’re a lot nicer to me when you’ve eaten. It’s more for me than you, really.”

I cracked a smile and we followed the hostess through the restaurant to a table in a tiny enclosed patio. We had the space all to ourselves.

It was actually a little romantic. Mismatched bistro chairs and reclaimed wood tables with little vases of carnations on them. The patio was full of potted plants. Several fountains trickled along the vine-twisted brick walls that enclosed us. Throw pillows with Aztec patterns in the booths, Christmas lights strung over us. Intimate and lovely.

I was still going to check the reviews though.

Once we’d ordered, Josh started hitting me with questions. I think the brunch from hell was starting to process.

“I don’t think I appreciated my mom enough,” he said, taking the garnishes off his Bloody Mary and sliding them across to me on a napkin. “What was it like growing up with a mom like that?”

I nibbled on the pickle spear. “Like that brunch—but for eighteen years.”

“She reminds me of that lady from that movie…” He snapped his fingers. “The one with Meryl Streep?”

I scoffed. “The Devil Wears Prada? She might be the devil. Nobody’s ever seen them in the same room at the same time before.”

He chuckled and I smiled weakly at him. God, he was my hero. In the last thirty minutes, Josh had done the modern-day equivalent of slaying a dragon. He saved me. Twice. Once from the Ice Queen and then again from starvation.

Food was my currency. Hungry was an emotion for me. I felt that shit in my soul.

I looked at the napkin he gave me. He liked all this stuff—celery, pickles, olives, shrimp. Either my hangry was truly terrifying or he gave it to me because he was taking care of me. He hadn’t eaten yet either. He was hungry too, but he didn’t even keep an olive for himself.

Josh was going to make a very good daddy one day. He was selfless and principled. Brave. Loyal.

He’d make a good husband to someone too.

I thought about how he’d given me his French toast earlier, and I had to clutch my heart through my dress.

“You okay?” he asked, watching me squeeze my chest.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

It’s just that you’re perfect, and my heart hurts.

“Hey…” His eyes narrowed at my hand, and he reached for it over the table. “How’d you get this?” He ran a thumb along the purple mark just above my knuckles.

The touch gave me butterflies.

“Oh, it was a freak Pop-Tart accident while you were at work.”

His thumb stilled, and he looked at me like I was about to tell him I was kidding. “A Pop-Tart accident? You got injured making a Pop-Tart?”

I pulled my hand back and feigned indignation. “Yes, I did. The middle of those things are like molten lava when they’re hot. And me and this particular Pop-Tart had a run-in.”

His eyes danced with amusement. “We really need to keep you out of the kitchen.”

I shrugged. “So I cook the way you drive. Whatever.”

He laughed.

“Hey,” I said, after a moment. “I’m sorry she was insulting. It was meant to hurt me, not you.”

He held his glass on the table. “You’re very different around her.”

Yes. Because she has the key to every room.

I’d never been able to keep her out.

Or lock her in.

I let out a long breath. “It’s like the second I’m in her presence, I’m six years old, disappointing her at her dinner party with my Mozart concerto.”

“How long did you play the piano?”

I reached down and pulled the backs off my heels. “Fifteen years. Every day for three hours, six days a week. Sunday was for tennis and whatever other activity she made me do.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Wow. Why did you stop?”

“I stopped because she forced it on me.”

He took a drink. “Were you any good?”

“Well, I’d hope so. You spend three hours a day doing anything for fifteen years, you better be good at it,” I said, eating an olive.

I would play for him if he asked. And I didn’t play for anyone.

Piano was symbolic for me. The shackles of my childhood, the chain I cast off when I finally had some control of my own life. Picking it up again, even though I was good at it, felt like acknowledging that her tyranny had merit. So my stilled fingers were my rebellion.

But for Josh? To have him look at me with admiration? I would play for Josh.

It was such an odd feeling wanting him to be impressed with me but simultaneously hoping he didn’t like me too much.

“You got into Harvard? And you were in law school?” he asked.