“Oh.” She settled her napkin on her lap and dug around in her purse for her sunglasses. “You can’t go wrong with the catch of the day.”
“Sold.”
Fletch closed his menu as she slipped the glasses over her nose and hid behind the dark lenses. She would not be caught staring at that dimple—or anything else—again.
For a moment, she thought he was going to comment on her transparent strategy. But he let it pass as the waitress arrived to take their orders.
Fletch deferred to her.
“A Coke and shrimp cocktail.”
“And for your entrée?” The woman waited, pencil poised.
“That’s all I’m having.”
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