We Make Mayhem [boyxboy]

Chapter Twenty-One

We wound through the cobblestone, car-free streets of Whistler Village, passing groups of laughing tourists and rosy shop windows. A bubble of happiness swelled up inside my chest. I felt like I was home. This imagined home held more possibility and hope than my literal home had in a while.

That was sad to think about, so I stopped.

Noah led me up the steps of a restaurant called Axari and held the door open for me. I immediately felt underdressed, walking inside. It was dark inside—on purpose, which means fancy, and I was wearing jeans and a yellow t-shirt with a graphic of Kramer from Seinfeld. Noah wasn't dressed fancy either, but he looked like a celebrity in hiding. I just looked like a dork.

"Welcome to Axari," the hostess said as we walked in. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Under 'Lord,'" Noah said.

"Right this way, sir."

If anyone gave us weird looks as she led us through the bustling dining room to a little table in the corner, I didn't catch it. Noah looked too sexy. He took off his sunglasses and then his eyes glittered in the light of the little candle on our table. I couldn't look away. When the waitress came to take our order, I hadn't even glanced at the menu. Noah swooped in and rescued me.

"Do you like steak?" he asked me.

I nodded.

To the waitress, he said, "He'll have the ribeye with pommes frites."

When the waitress was gone, I told him, "That was hot."

"What?"

"You ordering for me."

He raised his eyebrows. "Interesting. Is it the food or the ordering that does it for you?"

"The ordering, for sure." I blushed. "It's like you're... taking charge, you know?"

"Mmm. I'll remember that you like that." He paused. "I thought it might be the eighty dollar steak turning you on."

I almost choked on my water.

"Eighty dollars?" I hissed. "Noah, that's—that's insane!"

"Oh, shh. It's nothing."

That made me take another look around the restaurant. Did everyone have eighty dollar entrées on their plates? Did they all think it was "nothing"? This was Whistler—it was full of rich people. Everywhere I went was full of rich people. I lived in West Vancouver, for Christ's sake. I was used to feeling like I didn't quite belong, but this was a new level.

Noah reached across the table and put his hand over mine. I realized that all my muscles were tensed.

"Don't worry," he said. "I've got it."

You'd better, I thought. Because I sure don't.

I said, "It had better be good, at least."

He grinned. "The best. My family knows the manager."

He was right. When our food arrived, our table looked like something off a foodie's Instagram feed. My steak was a perfect medium rare, glistening and covered in coarse pepper.

"Would it be tacky of me to take a picture?" I whispered.

Noah grinned. "Go for it. If anyone gives you a weird look, I'll sic the management on them."

I took the picture and uploaded it to Instagram right there. Worth it.

The food tasted as good as it looked. We were both silent as we ate, focused on shoveling in as much as we could. By the time the waitress came for my plate, I was scraping it with my fork, trying to capture every last drop of juice.