The Magnolia Chronicles: Adventures in Modern Dating(4)

"Landscape architect," I said with a smile. I'd told him this during our first message exchange but I figured it was filed away with all the other useful information I'd shared.

Like my name.

He glanced at me and then returned his attention to the bar on the other side of the restaurant. He'd been eyeing the busty bartender since we walked in. "What is that again?"

"I design and build outdoor environments in residential settings," I replied. I couldn't scrub the smile from my face. Whether blessing or curse, I was a serial smiler. "I specialize in roof gardens and sustainable design."

"That sounds like good money," he said. "What do you pull in per year?"

Lord have mercy.

"I do all right for myself," I said, a stiff grin pointed at my dish of ravioli. "You're in the fire detector business, right?"

"Sure am." He plucked a sprig of rosemary from his plate, sniffed it, and tossed it down. It landed on the middle of the bright white tablecloth like an herbaceous casualty of this skirmish. "I was in Burlington today. Installed a whole floor on one of those new business parks. The building codes these days, I'll tell ya, they have a unit every few feet. Not that I'm complaining. More units, more money. And I've got a lot of units."

He leaned forward and wiggled his eyebrows as though the mere mention of cash would light my panties on fire. Unfortunately for him, money was good for heating my house but not my lady bits.

"Impressive," I said, forcing another smile. I took no issue with the pride he gained from his work or earning a comfortable living. It was the shallow arrogance soaking his every word and gesture. He was pleased with himself but got more jollies out of other people being pleased with him. "Really impressive. I love that for you."

He jerked his chin in my direction, a smug grin pulling at his lips. "Yeah, but I don't like talking about finances. That's pretty far down the road. I'm not interested in commitment. I'm not looking to wife anyone up, you know?" He lifted his rum and Coke, sipping while he stared at me. "You're cool with that, right? You're doing the casual thing, right?"

There was a long-suffering sigh gathering in my chest, a roll of impatient thunder. I managed a quick, "Mmhmm" and shoved a ravioli in my mouth. It was big and cheesy and delicious, and I took my time with it. To my mind, some tasty pasta could drown out the teeth-picking, name-forgetting, boob-ogling, commitment-dodging disaster of this evening.

There were no two ways about it—this was a disaster. He'd seemed fine in his messages. Funny and interesting, if not a little self-absorbed. But that was the trouble of chatting in an app: anyone could manage some amusing conversation for minutes here and there. Being affable and ordinary in person was a different ball game.

Dinner wrapped up without too many more comments about money or relationships, and I quickly shut down all talk of dessert. I didn't trust myself to share a slice of chocolate cake with this guy without wanting to gargle with muriatic acid. And let's be honest, I didn't want to share my cake.

The waiter cleared the table—including the steak knife, thank god—and left the check. Being the independent woman I was, I gestured toward it. "I'd be happy to pick this up," I said.

With a flippant shrug, he pushed the folio toward me. "Thanks," he said.

While I poked through my bag for my wallet, he snatched it back, opened it, and inspected each charge.

"I'm going to Aruba next month," he mumbled while he worked his thumbnail between his front teeth. Player really needed a dentist. "Me and my boys, we're all going." He tore his gaze from the bill and stared at my cleavage. "Ever been to Aruba? You might be able to pull off a bikini."

Aaaaaaaaand we're done.

As a rule, I wasn't fake. I didn't bullshit. I didn't go out of my way to make people aware that I disliked them either. I couldn't see how that helped anyone. But I wanted to smack this boy upside the head and tell him to find some manners. It wasn't that I couldn't take a compliment because that statement had no markings of a compliment.

"Wow," I panted, plucking my credit card from my wallet's front pocket. I didn't bother tugging my sweater up. If he was going to objectify my body, that was about him, not me. I wasn't hiding myself because he couldn't have breasts in his sight line without being disgusting about it. I tapped my card on the table. "I'll just get the waiter's attention for this and then we can be on our way."

"Nah, I changed my mind. It's on me," he declared, reaching into his pocket and producing a card of his own. He chucked it toward the center of the table. "What kind of man lets a chick pay?"

I blinked several times, not understanding this tug-of-war.

"We'll split it," I said, twisting my voice into that perky, breezy tone I used when my clients freaked out halfway through a project because their yard looked nothing like the pitch designs. I sounded perky and breezy but you can believe I rolled my eyes like a motherfucker.

The waiter appeared and I shoved the cards into his hands. "Here. Here you go. All set."

"Great," he drawled. "I'll be right back."

It didn't take long to process our payments, and I added a healthy gratuity to my total. This guy seemed the type to leave a forty-nine-cent tip and a pompous comment about the knives not meeting his sharpness standards.