Milo throws the door open wide, flashes me a brilliant grin, and says, “Wait until you taste it.”

Shoving my hesitations about the sanitary conditions aside, I follow Thane through the door and to a once-white Formica table with chipped edges. I take the seat opposite Thane, which means that—deep breath—Milo is sitting next to me. My blood is pounding in my ears, and I have to make the hostess repeat her request three times before I finally hear her ask, “Hot tea?”

“Yes, please,” I say, ducking to hide my blush.

“No menus?” Thane asks.

“Not with dim sum,” Milo explains. “The waiters will bring around trays of dishes, and if we see any we like, we get them.” He spins a small piece of paper beneath his finger. “They stamp this order sheet to keep track of what we eat.”

“Sounds complicated,” I manage.

“It’s great,” Milo promises with a wink.

I’m not so sure. But when the first trayful of goodies comes by, my mouth waters at the wonderful smells. It’s like I never even ate dinner.

“Barbecue pork buns are the best,” Milo says, pointing to a metal tin containing three puffy white balls of dough. “Just don’t eat the paper stuck to the bottom.”

The waiter sets the tin on our table, pulls a stamp from his apron, and marks a symbol onto our order ticket.

“Oh,” I say, eyeing the pork buns. “I, um—”

“Grace is vegetarian,” Thane explains, so I don’t have to.

Milo gives me a serious look. Great, now he thinks I’m some kind of hippie-granola weirdo. No, I’m just eco-conscious and doing my part to lighten my footprint. I wave a mental good-bye to my very slim chance with him.

But then he says, “Why didn’t you say something?”

He calls the waiter back over, and soon there is a tin of doughy buns—these filled with barbecued veggies—sitting next to the pork.

“Thanks,” I say, and then drop my gaze to the food. Cute and considerate. As if Milo weren’t already my dream guy.

It takes only a quick tutorial from Milo for me to manage the chopsticks well enough to pick up my bun and lift it to my mouth.

“Uh-oh,” he says, as I’m about to take a bite. He reaches toward me and, for a heartbeat, I think he’s going to touch my cheek. Instead, he peels a thin piece of waxed paper off the bottom of my veggie bun. “Trust me, this does not add to the experience.”

I laugh at his teasing comment, but inside, my heart is doing cartwheels. Play it cool, Grace. Don’t want him to think I’m totally boy-illiterate.

As if I’m totally together, I lift the bun the rest of the way to my mouth and am about to bite in when a repulsive smell washes over me.

Instant nausea.