Free Playing for Keeps by Yahrah St. John Page B

comfort zone.”
    â€œWhy?” she asked, drying her hands with a towel the waiter had left.
    â€œBecause, my dear—” Quentin tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear “—you need to live a little.”
    â€œI am very cultured,” Avery replied, somewhat offended by his offhanded comment.
    â€œWhy must you be so combative? I just wanted to show you something different. Can’t you let me do that?”
    Her eyes narrowed and he thought she was going to say no, but she smiled instead and said, “Yes. So, what are we having for dinner? Because I have no idea what to order.”
    Quentin ordered items for them both to share, so Avery could try several of his favorite foods on the menu.
    While the waiter put their order in, Quentin used the time to learn more about Avery. He found she was a lot more open-minded than he’d thought and enjoyed many of the same things that he did. She had an affinity not just for art, but the theater, literature, classical music and travel. She was well traveled and had seen her share of Europe.
    â€œHave you ever been to the Middle East?” Quentin inquired.
    â€œNo, I haven’t,” Avery replied. “I’m sure you have some interesting stories you could tell. I saw your Iraq photographs in Time and they were amazing. You captured the despair and fear in the country.”
    â€œYou have no idea the horrors and atrocities that soldiers face when they go to war. It’s brutal. No wonder many of them come back traumatized. My photographs capture only a second of the things they see and experience daily.”
    â€œAre you going back any time soon?”
    Quentin shook his head. “No, as much as I enjoy life abroad, I’d like to stay on American soil for a while. And plus, I kind of like the sights right here in New York.” He glanced at her sideways.
    Avery blushed because Quentin was in no way hiding his obvious interest in her.
    â€œDid I say something wrong?” he asked, inching closer to her.
    â€œUh…no,” she said. “It’s just that you and I…”
    â€œHave more in common than you realized,” Quentin finished.
    He was right, but she wasn’t about to admit that. “No, what I was about to say is that we’ve lived totally different lives. I was brought up in a cocoon on Park Avenue, sheltered from the horrors of the world, except what I see on the news. While you’ve seen them. Lived them. I’m sure that had to change you.”
    â€œYes, it has,” Quentin said and reached for her hand. He held her small delicate hand in his large one. “It’s made me value life and all it has to offer.”
    Despite their differences, Avery felt a pull toward Quentin and had it not been for the waiter returning with their hummus appetizer on a beautifully decorated platter, she might have fallen into his arms.
    â€œWhat is it?” Avery asked, looking at the strange mixture.
    The waiter answered, “It’s a combination of chickpeas, tahini, spices and olive oil. Please try it.”
    â€œHere.” Quentin grabbed a piece of flat bread and dipped it in the smooth, creamy mixture. He leaned over and brought the bread to Avery’s lips. “C’mon, don’t be a chicken.”
    She opened her mouth and took the plunge. She bit into it and found the hummus to be surprisingly tasty.
    â€œSo, what do you think?” he asked, licking the remnants off his fingertips.
    Avery turned and smiled at Quentin. “It’s not bad. Actually, it’s quite good.”
    â€œI’m glad you like it.” They continued their seven-course Moroccan journey when he offered her another delicacy, bastilla. Crisp phyllo leaves powdered with cinnamon and confectioner’s sugar enclosed the delicate, juicy filling of saffron chicken. It was completely sensual having Quentin feed her, and not just because it was a mouthwatering blend of tastes