Dinner out was a nice treat, and one Preston wasn’t used to, but he didn’t want Abby to think he was forsaking her company for Cam’s. Plus, as a chef, he couldn’t help secretly judging everything he ate, thinking how he would have made it better, or deconstructing the recipe in his mind, breaking down the flavors on his palate, comparing them to what the menu had listed. When he ate at a fast food place, he didn’t do this as much, because he expected to be disappointed—he knew he’d ordered nothing but grease and high fructose corn syrup, and was rarely surprised, except when it came to french fries. Those were usually good, despite the grease and the fat and the salt.
But at the more expensive restaurants, what most people thought of as “date night” places, Preston found it hard to silenc
