Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ELLIOT
There are a number of frugal commandments I live my life by.
Best before dates, unlike expiration dates, are merely a suggestion.
The best time to shop for winter coats and boots for an ever growing child is March when seasonal items hit the clearance racks.
And if I can’t pronounce the restaurant’s name, I probably can’t afford to eat there.
I’m breaking rule number three just by setting foot in Friandise.
The atmosphere feels a little too fancy for my tax bracket.
High ceilings stretch toward glittering chandeliers, marble floors gleam under the golden light, and soft music hums from somewhere unseen—violins, maybe.
Everything smells faintly of butter and money.
The air itself feels polished. I tighten my worn wool coat around my waist, a poor attempt to disguise how utterly out of place I feel.
When the ma?tre d’ approaches with a professional smile and asks to take my coat, my first instinct is to clutch it tighter to my body. It’s my armour and no you can’t have it! I don’t, of course. With great reluctance, I unbutton it, one by one, and start to shrug it off.
He steps forward to help, but Arthur gets there first. I swear there’s a flicker of challenge in his eyes when he meets their gaze. Whatever silent contest they’re having, Arthur wins; the ma?tre d’ takes a full, respectful step back.
Arthur’s hands brush my arms as he eases the coat from my shoulders, his fingertips grazing bare skin where my sleeve slips down. The contact sends a shiver up my spine despite the restaurant’s warmth. He passes both our coats to the ma?tre d’, his jaw set in quiet satisfaction.
The man signals to someone, and a host appears to lead us to our table. “Follow me,” he says with an encouraging smile aimed at me. I wonder if he knows I’m out of my depth.
I fall into step behind him, trying to walk like someone whose shoes actually fit.
My old heels—vintage, but not in the cool way—pinch my toes with every step.
As I try to subtly wiggle my big toe for relief, I wobble.
Arthur’s hand comes to rest at my waist, steadying me.
His palm is firm, his thumb brushing the fabric of my dress just long enough to make me forget how to breathe.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my neck.
“Yes,” I say quickly, my laugh too high. “New shoes.”
Not true. But he doesn’t need to know that.
The host stops at a table tucked into the far corner of the restaurant.
It looks like something out of an old black-and-white romance film, the kind you watch alone at midnight with a heaping bowl of ice cream and a side of self-pity.
Candlelight pools across the white linen tablecloth, reflecting off crystal glasses.
The soft notes of a string quartet melt through the air. It’s a fairy tale.
And I’m fairly certain I’m in the wrong story.
When the host pulls out my chair, Arthur’s expression tightens, but he doesn’t interfere. I sit, and the man pushes my chair in before setting down two leather-bound menus. “Your server will be with you shortly,” he says before gliding away.
“This is—”
“You look—”
We both stop. Then laugh. The sound is nervous, overlapping, and too loud for such a refined place.
Is it possible Arthur’s just as nervous as I am? Could he be fighting the same fluttery panic—only with a better poker face?
I gesture for him to go ahead. He clears his throat, his eyes flicking briefly to my lips before he says, “You look lovely.”
I can feel my cheeks heat instantly. It’s an involuntary reaction that’s equal parts embarrassed and thrilled. Compliments from Arthur aren’t exactly handed out like party favours, so when one arrives unexpectedly, it means something.
“Thank you,” I manage.
The compliment feels like validation for the entire internal crisis I had getting ready for this dinner.
My wardrobe—if you can call three pairs of sweatpants and a rotating set of scrubs a wardrobe—is not well equipped for dating.
My only “fancy” option is a little black dress, a relic from my earlier life.
After a panicked video call with Jess, where she assured me I looked great and the dress was perfect, I decided it would have to do.
Once upon a time, it had hung a bit looser.
Now, it’s clinging in places it never used to, but the fabric has just enough stretch to let me breathe.
It’s simple, sleeveless, and hopelessly classic.
The kind of dress that might make me look like I belong here.
If the lighting is right and you squint.
I glance across the table at him. “You look lovely too.”
Arthur’s lips twitch.
“What?”
He shakes his head slowly, amusement lighting his eyes. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my life. Most of them I’m not able to repeat in polite company. But I don’t think anyone has ever called me lovely.”
“Nonsense,” I say, leaning forward on my elbows, warming to the game. “I’m sure plenty of people have called you that. Just…not to your face. Because—”
“Because I’m terrifying?” he finishes, his tone dry but his mouth curving slightly.
I laugh, unable to help it. “I was going to say intimidating, but sure, let’s go with terrifying.”
He huffs out a low, rough laugh. I’ve grown far too fond of that sound.
“I think you’re more liked than you think you are,” I say.
“I doubt that very much.” He picks up his water glass, his gaze flicking to me over the rim as he raises it to his mouth. “People might respect me. They might fear me. But they don’t like me.”
“I like you,” I say before I can stop myself.
His glass pauses midair. One brow arches. “You are the exception.”
“Sam likes you,” I counter.
His eyes widen by a fraction. “Did he say that?”
I grin. “He didn’t have to. I can tell. And my son is not someone whose favour is earned easily. Remind you of anyone?”
He actually smiles at this, and it’s like witnessing a solar eclipse. Rare, dazzling, and probably something you shouldn’t look directly at. I stare anyway.
Arthur looks unfairly handsome tonight. Freshly shaved, the sharp planes of his jaw catch the candlelight.
His dark hair is neatly combed back but with one rebellious lock threatening to fall forward.
The charcoal suit fits him too well, molding perfectly to his broad shoulders and lean waist. The crisp white shirt beneath brings out the warmth in his skin, and his tie is perfectly knotted.
I wonder what he’d do if I reached across the table and loosened it, just a notch.
I’m supposed to be looking at the menu, but I’m transfixed. When he glances up and catches me looking, something inside me short-circuits.
“Stunning,” I breathe.
His brow lifts. “Excuse me?”
Crap. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. “Starving,” I blurt out, my voice a little too high. “I said I’m starving.”
Nice save, Baker. Very smooth.
He tilts his head, clearly amused, but mercifully lets it slide. “I haven’t eaten here before,” he says, picking up his menu.
“Well, it’ll have to be good if it’s going to top the last meal we shared,” I tease.
He blinks at me, confused.
“I mean the greasy pizza we ate on my couch,” I clarify quickly, waving a hand. “Though, to be fair, the setting here is better.”
“You don’t like your house?” he asks.
“What? Oh no, that’s not what I meant.” I shake my head. “It’s a forty-year-old duplex that hasn’t been updated since it was built, but I actually love it. And the neighbourhood is great.”
He nods, studying me with that intense, unreadable gaze. “Have you spoken to your landlord recently?”
“Yes! He’s found someone new for the other unit,” I say, perking up.
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh. I don’t know who they are yet, or when they’re moving in, but my rent’s staying the same and that’s all I care about.”
Something in his shoulders eases, and the faintest shadow of concern melts off his face. “That’s good,” he says simply.
Our eyes meet again, and just like that, the air thickens. My stomach does this ridiculous swooping thing while heat unfurls through my chest. I grab my menu, tempted to hide behind it.
It’s heavier than I expect. The leather cover creaks when I open it. Inside, everything is written in elegant French script.
I flip through the pages, scanning for something recognizable. “Poulet,” I whisper under my breath. “That’s chicken, right?” But then my eyes catch something else, and my heart does a whole new kind of flip.
“Oh my god.”
Arthur looks up. “You can’t read French either?”
“Not well,” I admit. “But I can read the prices just fine.” I look at him, horrified. “Arthur. This place is too expensive.”
He waves a hand dismissively, eyes already back on the menu. “Don’t worry about it.”
He doesn’t mean it unkindly, but the phrase lands like a blow.
Don’t worry about it.
I’ve heard those words before from Shawn. Every time I asked how we could afford something, where the money came from, why the bills were late. Don’t worry about it. And I didn’t. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to believe it was fine.
But it wasn’t fine. And I paid for my blind faith time and time again.
My palms grow clammy against the smooth leather menu.
I tell myself this isn’t the same. Arthur isn’t Shawn.
He’s not hiding anything. He’s just wealthy enough that a dinner like this barely registers on his radar.
Still, the imbalance gnaws at me. The cost of this meal.
The cost of everything. The favour of driving Roxanne, the physiotherapy sessions, the way I keep accepting his help like it’s free when it never really feels that way.
My throat tightens. It’s all too much, the candlelight, the marble. I’m being silently smothered in luxury. I can feel my pulse thudding beneath the too-snug neckline of my dress.
A perfectly composed woman in her late twenties appears, wearing a crisp white shirt and a pleasant smile.