Free A Second Bite at the Apple by Dana Bate Page A

and make up some excuse as to why you can’t have dinner with me. Am I right?”
    I pick up a piece of bakery tissue paper and rub it between my fingers. Before I can confirm that yes, in fact, I was about to make up an excuse as to why I can’t have dinner with him, mostly because I don’t want to go out to dinner with him, Rick yells at me from the other side of the tent.
    â€œCome on, Chatty Cathy. People are waiting!”
    â€œSorry!” I yell back.
    Jeremy grins. “How about this: Meet me Friday night at Birch and Barley at seven o’clock. If you’re bored after fifteen minutes, you can leave. No strings attached.”
    â€œFifteen minutes?”
    He nods. “Fifteen minutes.”
    â€œSydney, let’s go! ” Rick shouts.
    â€œOkay, okay!” I yell over my shoulder. I look back at Jeremy. I could say no. I probably should say no, given that he called me a loud talker and will probably decide I am an undateable nerd after two minutes. But there is something about him—his penetrating eyes, his unapologetic boldness, his endearing smile. I could say no, but something in my gut won’t let me.
    â€œOkay,” I say. “I’ll be there. But I’m holding you to that fifteen-minute rule.”
    â€œThen I’d better bring my A game,” he says with a smirk. “See you Friday. And as long as I’m here . . .” He points to an oatmeal raisin cookie.
    â€œYou got it.” I stuff the cookie into a bag, and as I study the devilish grin on Jeremy’s face, I decide I either just made the best decision I’ve ever made, or the worst.

CHAPTER 10
    The following Friday night, I show up at Birch and Barley looking as good as someone with a supremely limited fashion sense who doesn’t really want to participate in this dinner can look: bland and unremarkable, other than my raging under-eye circles and stubby nails, which I’ve bitten down to the quick. Were this a date with my dream man—whatever rare specimen might fit that description—I would have used my meager salary to buy a new dress and new underwear and new shoes. I would have popped for the fifteen-dollar anti-frizz pomade, instead of the five-dollar pot-o’-grease I have applied to my unruly, dark brown waves, and I would have spent two hours grooming myself into my most attractive state.
    But this isn’t my dream man. This is some guy who seems to be stalking me, and so I haven’t done any of those things. And, by decree, I only have to spend fifteen minutes with him before I can go home, change into fleece pants, and flip through reruns of Law & Order and The Office . Part of me wishes I could dispense with this entire charade before it begins.
    The good news is that Birch and Barley sits only seven short blocks south of my apartment, on a stretch of Fourteenth Street teeming with restaurants, bars, and home furnishing shops. This part of Washington has always felt more like New York or Philadelphia to me, with its urban bustle and density, each storefront pressed tightly against the next. I think that’s why I chose to live in this area of town. Even if I worked crazy hours, rarely dated, and spent most of my free time in my apartment by myself, I had at least the illusion of companionship. Surrounded by so many people, I could pretend I wasn’t completely alone.
    I squeeze past a group lingering in front of the restaurant’s warehouse-like edifice, with its two-story birch door and large-paned front window. The front vestibule is cramped and narrow, and I line up behind the crowd waiting to speak to the hostess. The interior of the restaurant is warm and dark, with exotic wood panels interspersed between long stretches of exposed brick walls. Small globe lights dangle from the ceiling, their twinkling orbs casting a warm glow on the plush olive booths and Lucite chairs. The room is hip and sexy and polished—everything I