Chapter 36 #2
“He did.” She looks down at her wine for a moment, then back at me. “Really knew me. Even when I was being an asshole.”
“Rare skill.”
“Extremely. Mama mostly just tells me I’m being an asshole.”
I laugh, and Laurel does too, the sadness staying there without swallowing the rest of her.
She reaches for another piece of bread and points it at me. “Your turn. Tell me something embarrassing about your family.”
“Define embarrassing.”
“You have a sister. I’m sure she can provide documentation.”
“Lila would provide sworn testimony for free.”
“That bad?”
“She considers humiliating me a civic responsibility.”
That gets another smile, and when Laurel asks about my family, the question doesn’t feel like one.
We’ve been sitting here for over an hour, and at some point I stop deciding which parts of myself are safe to hand over.
Mom can turn a five-minute phone call into forty-five and still insist she barely got to speak; Lila figured out young that being my older sister gave her permanent authority over me, and Matt has spent years pretending he married only one Vale despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
Theo approaches every household rule like there’s an appeals process, and Evie made me pinky-promise twice that I’ll be at her concert because, according to her, the second one makes it stronger.
Laurel smiles into her wine. “I like her already.”
“She’ll adore you.”
“You sound very sure.”
“She’s six. You’re pretty and you sing. You’ve already cleared the major requirements.”
Laurel steals a piece of bread from my plate with a grin, and I let her have it because I’m beginning to understand that feeding this woman may become one of my more expensive habits.
Dad comes up next. He could turn buying a lawn mower into a lesson on leverage and leave you questioning your entire approach to adulthood by the time you reached the register; Mom spent most of our childhood reminding him his children were people, not junior executives undergoing management training.
Laurel’s mouth curves. “Well, that clears up a few things.”
“What part?”
“The part where half of Nashville is scared of you, but Evie says pinky-promise and you fold.”
“I’m not bullied by children.”
Evie made me wear a plastic tiara through most of her last birthday party, so I don’t have much evidentiary support for the claim.
Our pasta arrives with Laurel still smiling, and the conversation eases into a silence that doesn’t ask either of us to fix it.
Sinatra plays low near the bar; silverware taps against plates, rain begins pattering over the old window, and Laurel winds pasta around her fork under the little pool of light between us.
I’ve wanted her in conference rooms with blood in the water. Wanted her furious, wrecked, brilliant, impossible, daring anyone to stand in her way. None of that prepared me for this.
Laurel across a table from me, parmesan at the edge of her plate, half my bread already gone, smiling because I let a little girl put a tiara on my head.
This might be the most dangerous version of wanting her yet.
The olives start the next hour. Laurel finds three in her salad and pushes each one to the edge of her plate with the concentration of a bomb technician.
I ask what they ever did to her, and she tells me olives taste like “someone pickled disappointment,” which opens the door to an impressive collection of private prejudices: candles scented like baked goods, hotels with decorative pillows no one is allowed to sleep on, grown adults who announce they “don’t really listen to lyrics,” and people who stand the second a plane touches the runway.
That last one buys us a ten-minute argument after I admit I’ll do it when I have a connection to make.
“That’s different.”
“No, you’ve granted me an exemption.”
“You have another flight to catch.”
“I’m rich.”
She stares at me. “You say that like it’s a medical condition.”
“It has symptoms.”
By dessert, I know she sleeps with one foot outside the blanket no matter how cold the room gets, once stole a ceramic frog from a Tulsa hotel lobby on a dare and returned it before she made it to the elevator, and considers The Mummy one of cinema’s great achievements.
Her defense of Brendan Fraser gets so passionate I finally cut in and say I hope the man knows he has legal representation in Tennessee.
She points her spoon at me. “Mock that movie again and we’re leaving separately.”
I let her know my own tastes run to biographies, military history and terrible cooking competitions.
Her spoon stops halfway to her mouth. “Cooking competitions?”
“Yes.”
“You cook?”
“Very well.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Of course you do.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I was hoping there was at least one domestic skill money couldn’t buy you.”
“My mother taught me.”
“What can you make?”
“Most things.”
“Risotto?”
“Better than this place.”
Laurel glances down at my plate, then back at me. “God, you’re arrogant.”
“Come over and I’ll prove it.”
Her spoon pauses halfway to her mouth. I lift my water to my lips like I didn’t put the invitation between us on purpose.
“You use cooking to get women into your house?”
“No.” I set the glass down. “Just you.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “And once you get me there?”
I hold her gaze. “Depends what you’re hungry for.”
She lowers her spoon, color warming her cheeks. “We’re not talking about risotto anymore.”
“Haven’t been for a while.”
She laughs, and the urge to check her voice kicks in automatically. I shove it aside. She asked me for one night without being watched like a patient, and I meant it when I agreed.
Still, she notices.
“Ugh. You’re doing it again.”
“I’m sorry. Your laugh does things to my judgment.”
“Nice try. You were checking my voice.”
“I was admiring your mouth.”
“You’re shameless.”
“Only when I have a good reason.”
“And my mouth qualifies?”
“Your mouth qualifies for several things I’m currently not allowed to do.”
She rolls her eyes, but the pink in her cheeks deepens.
Five minutes later, after spending the first half of dessert insisting she didn’t want any, she reaches across the table and steals the last bite of my tiramisu.
I watch the spoon disappear between those berry-colored lips and decide I’m willing to lose every dessert I order if she keeps looking that pleased with herself.
My dick has been an unhelpful participant in the evening since the front porch, but dinner adds an entirely different problem.
Her knee brushes mine under the table and stays there for a beat; she wipes a trace of chocolate from the corner of her mouth with her thumb, and my entire brain follows the movement like it has no other job.
She notices, of course. Laurel misses very little when she decides to pay attention.
“You’re doing the face again.”
“What face?”
“The one from my porch.”
I lean back and lift the water to my mouth. I’ve been sober all night, so I can’t even blame the state of my thoughts on alcohol. “I’ve got several faces.”
“This one looks like you’re trying to solve a problem.”
“I am.”
“Business?”
“No.”
Her mouth tilts. She knows exactly what I mean, and now the woman is enjoying herself. “Complicated?”
“It’s wearing green silk.”
Silence holds for maybe three seconds. Color climbs her throat; she lowers her eyes to her plate, pretending sudden interest in dinner.
“Smooth.”
“Wasn’t trying to be.”
“Somehow, I believe you.” When her eyes meet mine again, some of the teasing has gone from them. “You know what I like about tonight?”
I wait.
“I forgot for a little bit.”
I don’t need her to explain what she means. I set my hand between us, palm open.
Her attention drops to it for a second before her fingers slide over mine.
“Good,” I tell her.
Her thumb moves once along the side of my hand. Such a small fucking thing compared with everything I’ve spent the night wanting to do to her, and my pulse kicks harder now than it did when she walked out of her house in that dress.
Lust I know what to do with.
This has roots.