Chapter 22 Eliza
Eliza
I’d been awake for a while before I realized it was my day off and I could have slept in.
Nate lingered under my skin anyway—not in the obvious ways, though those were there too—but in the quieter ones. The way my chest felt lighter than it had in years. The memory of laughter and careful hands brushing mine, asking for nothing in return. The way being with him hadn’t required armor.
That was the dangerous part. It felt so right to be with him, and yet so hard to trust it completely once I wasn’t with him.
I padded through the house, letting the morning find me instead of the other way around, coffee untouched on the counter while my thoughts ran ahead.
Last night had been warm and safe, so easy it made my heart ache.
Nate hadn’t rushed me. He hadn’t demanded clarity, promises, or explanations.
He’d just made it okay to tell him how I felt.
Nothing forced. Nothing owed. Present in a way that made me want to stay.
Which meant, of course, that today was going to be difficult.
Graham’s grand opening hovered at the edges of my thoughts like a low cloud, impossible to ignore. I squared my shoulders, determined to get through it steady and intact. I wasn’t going to give him more space than he deserved—not in my day, not in my head.
Still, nerves don’t listen to reason. They wound tight anyway, whispering worst-case scenarios I’d sworn I’d never believe again.
Nate had made me feel brave last night, and that was the problem. When something started to feel real—safe, even—I couldn’t pretend it was temporary anymore.
I finally forced myself into motion because standing still felt like an invitation to spiral. The day unfolded the way days always did—feeding the cats, stepping over Linguini’s dramatic sprawl in the doorway, refilling Remy’s water bowl before he could glare me into compliance.
Life, stubborn and ordinary, insisted on continuing.
And for once, I let it.
I made toast I forgot to eat and coffee I reheated twice, drifting through my house like I was both present and somewhere else entirely. Every familiar thing felt slightly tilted, as if last night had nudged my life half an inch off its axis.
By midafternoon, I’d cleaned surfaces that didn’t need cleaning and checked my phone too often for no reason at all.
Nate would pick me up later. That was the plan.
Simple. Normal. Except nothing about how my heart raced when I thought about him felt normal anymore.
I wanted tonight to be effortless. I wanted to be brave.
I wanted not to care what Graham thought—all reasonable goals.
None of them were guaranteed to go the way I wanted.
So, when it was finally time to get ready, I treated it like I was donning armor for battle.
I showered, dried my hair, chose the dress with care—not too much, not too little.
Something that said I knew who I was, even if I was still figuring it out.
I caught my reflection once, hands braced on the sink, and took a breath.
Tonight, I told myself, was just a night out, even if it felt like so much more.
I slid into my shoes with a grimace. I hadn’t worn heels this high since I left Portland and decided blistered toes weren’t a thing I wanted to keep in my life. Tonight, apparently, they were a necessity.
Black dress—simple, fitted, the exact shade of confidence I didn’t quite feel.
Hair lifted softly at the crown; loose waves pinned to behave.
Liner sharp enough to cut glass, lipstick the deep scarlet color of a quiet threat.
I spritzed perfume and tried not to think about the dozen different ways this could go sideways.
Remy perched on the vanity like a judgmental stylist. Linguini sprawled on the bathmat, feigning fainting spells. “No notes,” I told them, even though they had many.
My phone buzzed.
Nate: I’m outside whenever you’re ready. No rush.
Me: Coming. And if I trip in these heels, you never saw it.
Nate: I’ll catch you. Then deny everything.
I clicked down the stairs and opened the door to find him in a navy blue dress jacket that did excellent things to his shoulders. Clean shave, hair pushed back, eyes bright. He went still with quiet awe, not performance.
“Wow,” he said, voice a little wrecked. “You look stunning.”
“You clean up okay, too,” I managed, steadier than my ankles in these heels. He offered me his arm like an old movie taught him how—or more likely, his grandfather’s example.
Across from the library, Graham’s new place glowed like it had hired a cinematographer to light it. Hand-gilded sign. Warm light trapped behind glass. Honeybrook Hollow was already impressed.
Inside, the air smelled like rosemary and butter and ambition. The host knew Nate—of course she did, Graham had personally invited him earlier in the week—and clocked me in the next breath. “Welcome,” she said. “Table for two?”
“Two,” Nate confirmed.
We landed at a small table with a commanding view: the bar, the open kitchen, the door. Nate’s fingers found mine under the table, a single quiet press. “Thirty minutes of politeness,” he murmured, “then leftover spaghetti.”
“Yes, with extra parm,” I said. “Non-negotiable.”
The server performed a sonnet about oysters and heritage carrots while the dining room hummed around us.
Every table was full—pressed linen, flickering votives, wine glasses catching the light.
Laughter rose and fell in practiced waves, the low roar of a place desperate to be seen as much as tasted.
People leaned close, phones discreetly angled, eyes darting as if this were part dinner, part performance.
Nate ordered sparkling water; I asked for a white wine spritzer because if you’re being tortured like this, you should do it with carbonation and alcohol—and bonus, Graham thought wine spritzers had no class.
He arrived as if on cue, cut to fit, smile calibrated to competitive arrogance. “Nate,” he said, warmth turned to high. “Glad you made it. Appreciate you accepting my invitation.” His gaze slid to me. “Eliza. You look wonderful as always.”
“Thank you,” I murmured and watched him carefully to see which way he wanted this conversation to go.
He smiled at Nate, mild curiosity in his tone: “Finding your footing yet?”
“Feels solid,” Nate replied. “Congratulations on the opening.”
“Thank you,” Graham said. “It’s been a lot to orchestrate. But totally worth it, as you can see.”
His gaze slid to me, voice lowering just enough to feel private. “I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would.” A pause. “You’ve been keeping a lower profile lately.”
That familiar pressure tightened under my ribs—the old instinct to shrink, to justify myself to him. I kept my smile pleasant and sharp. “Busy enjoying my life,” I said. “You should try it sometime.”
Nate’s thumb brushed my wrist once, calm and soft, a quiet reassurance.
Graham’s smile flickered—so fast someone not looking for it would’ve missed it.
“Of course,” he said lightly. “Enjoy the restaurant.” The words landed with a faint emphasis, like a reminder that we were in his territory.
He was already moving again, greeting staff, clapping a cook on the shoulder as if nothing had happened.
I exhaled. “That was restrained. For him.”
Nate leaned closer, voice dry. “If that was restraint, I’d hate to see the director’s cut. The man is an ass.”
I grabbed my drink and sipped it to calm my nerves.
I looked up as the door chimed.
A Darlington sister parade walked in like the place had been waiting for them. They spotted us instantly. Then, like swallows changing direction mid-sky, they headed my way.
Piper reached us first, because of course she did. “You look devastating,” she said, kissing my cheek. “We were definitely coming tonight, but with the things we’ve heard around town, we decided to capital-letter SHOW UP.”
Graham, noticing my sisters’ arrival, turned around and headed our way.
Great.
“Hi,” Lucy chirped, hugging me first, then flashing Nate a smile that was all sincerity. “We’re usually very chill,” she told him. “Tonight is a dressed-up deviation that could end up decidedly un-chill depending on whether the oldest two Darlingtons decide to play nice or not.”
“Extremely chill,” Cara agreed, calm and observant, her gaze taking in the room like she was cataloging a library. She angled closer to me. “But tonight is for Eliza, and we’re ready for—whatever comes up, or whoever decides to start something.”
Graham returned for a second lap, confidence still polished but worn thinner now, like he’d already used it too much tonight. “Ladies,” he said warmly. “Glad you made it.”
Paige took an appetizer from a passing server’s tray and popped it into her mouth. “Congrats on the lighting,” she said to him, deadpan. “Ambience is ninety percent of a restaurant when the food is tiny and weird.”
Lucy smiled, bright and polite. Cara nodded, measured. They had both clocked the tension and didn’t comment on it.
“Congrats on the opening,” Piper said easily, stepping in just enough to close the circle. “It looks beautiful.”
Graham’s charm flexed. “I’m thrilled you’re here to support our culinary scene.”
“We’re here to support Eliza,” Piper said, still smiling.
“And the culinary scene,” Lucy added cheerfully. “But mostly Eliza. You’ll find out.”
His jaw ticked. He turned to me, voice pitched low. “Eliza’s always had talent. Shame it didn’t translate into something big.”
Heat flared sharp and immediate, a spark of anger that wanted teeth.
My fingers curled around the stem of my glass, knuckles whitening for half a second before I forced them to relax.
I kept my face smooth, my posture loose, like the comment had slid right past me instead of landing exactly where he’d aimed it.