Chapter 5
Robin
I'm going on a date tonight and I'm already regretting it.
Not because of the guy — Brett seems fine on the app.
Thirty-one, works in finance, nice jaw, says he likes cooking and hiking and "trying new restaurants.
" His profile pictures show him at a vineyard, at a hiking trail, with a golden retriever that might be borrowed.
He messages in complete sentences and hasn't sent me a dick pic, which puts him in the top five percent of men on this app.
No, I'm regretting it because Toby is on a video call helping me pick an outfit and he has the gentle, probing expression of a man about to say something I don't want to hear.
"The green shirt," Toby says. "It makes your eyes pop."
"Everything makes my eyes pop. I have incredible eyes." I hold up the green shirt, then swap it for a black V-neck. "Black says 'I'm sexy but approachable.' Green says 'I'm trying too hard.'"
"Green says 'I have taste and I care about this date.'"
"Which is trying too hard."
"Robin." Toby's face on the phone screen is doing the thing where his glasses slip down his nose and he looks like a librarian interrogating a late-fee offender. Which is basically what he is. "Why are you going on this date?"
"Because I'm single and hot and Brett has a jaw that could cut marble."
"You've been single and hot for years. You haven't gone on a date in three months. What changed?"
Nothing changed. Everything changed. A man pushed a whiskey across a bar without being asked and I haven't stopped thinking about it for days.
"I'm restless," I say, which isn't a lie. "I need to get out. Meet someone. Have a normal evening with a normal guy who has a normal jaw."
"You keep mentioning his jaw."
"It's a really good jaw, Toby."
"Better than Vaughn's?"
I drop the shirt. "What does Vaughn have to do with anything?"
Toby gives me the look. The one that says he's known me since we were eighteen and I can't bullshit him. "Robin. You've talked about Vaughn six times this week. You made him a special cookie with hazel eyes."
"I made sixty cookies. Some of them had hazel eyes. It's a color."
"You also made him a separate lava cake with extra salted caramel, and according to Jason you fell asleep on his shoulder during a movie."
"Jason is a gossip and I fell asleep on the couch. Vaughn's shoulder happened to be there."
"And the lava cake?"
"He likes salted caramel. I'm a chef. I remember food preferences. It's literally my job."
"Your job that you hate."
"I don't hate my—" I stop. Pick up the black shirt. "I'm wearing the black. Brett doesn't deserve the green."
Toby lets it go, because Toby always knows when to let things go. He helps me fix my hair, tells me I look great, and right before we hang up he says, very casually, "You know, it's okay to like someone specifically. Not everyone. Just one person."
"I don't like anyone specifically. I like everyone. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
I hang up and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror.
Black V-neck, jeans that make my ass look spectacular, hair doing the artful-mess thing that takes twenty minutes to achieve.
I look good. I look like someone who goes on dates and has fun and doesn't think about a grumpy mechanic's reading glasses while getting ready for dinner with someone else.
I grab my keys and leave before I can talk myself out of it. Brett is late picking me up.
The restaurant is nice. Not great — the lighting's trying too hard, the menu has too many adjectives, and the bread basket is room temperature, which is a crime — but nice. Brett is already there when I arrive, and he stands up to greet me, which is a good sign.
"Robin. You look amazing." He pulls out my chair.
"Thanks. You look like your pictures, which puts you ahead of ninety percent of app dates."
He laughs. He has a good laugh — warm, easy, the kind that makes the table next to us glance over with approval. We order drinks. He asks about my work.
"I'm a pastry chef. Catering company."
"That's cool. I can barely make toast."
"Toast is an underrated skill. Good toast requires timing and attention."
He laughs again. Asks good follow-up questions — what kind of pastry, how did I get into it, what's my favorite thing to make. He listens. He makes eye contact. He has, as advertised, an excellent jaw.
This should be working. This is exactly the kind of date I'm good at — low-stakes, fun conversation, mutual attraction, the easy promise of something that doesn't need to be more than tonight. This is what I do. This is what I'm built for.
So why am I thinking about crossword puzzles and motorcycle grease?
The second round of drinks arrives and Brett's hand lands on my knee under the table. Not subtle about it — firm, proprietary, his thumb rubbing circles through my jeans.
"So," he says. "I have a great bottle of wine at my place. If you want to continue the evening somewhere more private."
"I'm good here for now. Tell me more about the hiking."
His hand stays on my knee. "The hiking's better in person. I could show you this weekend."
"Maybe. What trails do you like?"
His grip tightens. Just slightly — enough that I notice, not enough that I could call it aggressive. His eyes do something that his smile doesn't match. "You're hard to pin down, aren't you?"
"I've been told."
"I like a challenge."
The waiter brings our entrees and Brett's hand retreats.
I eat my salmon — overcooked, disappointing — and steer the conversation back to neutral territory.
Movies, travel, safe topics. Brett recovers, becomes charming again, tells a funny story about his golden retriever that might actually be his. I relax a fraction.
Then he orders my dessert without asking.
"The tiramisu for him," he tells the waiter, not looking at me. "And I'll have the crème br?lée."
"I actually don't want dessert," I say.
"Come on. You're a pastry chef. You have to try the tiramisu."
"I've had better tiramisu than this restaurant has ever produced. And I didn't ask for it."
His smile goes tight. "I'm just being nice."
"Then you can be nice by letting me order for myself."
The table goes cold. Brett leans back, crosses his arms, and looks at me with an expression I've seen before. The one that says I've been buying this dinner and you owe me something for it.
"You know," he says, "you're kind of difficult."
"I've been told that too."
"Most guys would appreciate someone taking charge."
"Most guys aren't me."
He reaches across the table and grabs my wrist. Not my hand — my wrist. His fingers wrap all the way around, tight enough to press bone, and he holds on. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let me take you home. We can start over."
I look at his fingers on my wrist. I'm not scared — not exactly.
I've been grabbed before. I've dated men who thought dinner was a transaction and my body was the receipt.
But I'm tired. Bone-deep tired of men who see "flirty" and hear "available.
" Who see "friendly" and hear "easy." Who buy me salmon and think that means they own my evening.
"Let go of my wrist."
"Robin—"
"Now."
He lets go. Holds up both hands, the picture of innocence. "Sorry. Got carried away."
"I need to use the restroom."
I walk to the bathroom with steady legs and shaking hands. Lock the stall door. Sit on the toilet lid and pull out my phone.
The calculus takes about three seconds. Not Ash — Ash will put Brett through a wall and I'll spend the rest of the night explaining to police why a retired Special Forces operative just hospitalized a finance bro.
Not Toby — Toby would call Knox, Knox would bring the pride, and I'd have five lions descending on this restaurant like a leather-clad SWAT team.
Vaughn.
Because Vaughn will come. He won't ask questions. He won't make it a production. He'll just show up, handle it, and drive me home. Quiet and steady and exactly what I need.
I need help. Bad date. Can you come get me?
Three dots appear instantly. He was already on his phone. Or he keeps it close. Either way, the response takes four seconds.
Address? Do you need me to kill him?
I almost laugh. Almost cry.
No murder. Just extraction please. I text the restaurant name and address.
5 minutes.
It takes eight. I know because I'm counting, sitting in the bathroom stall staring at the ceiling tiles, listening to the muffled clatter of the kitchen through the wall. My wrist aches where Brett grabbed it. Not badly — no bruise, probably — but the phantom pressure of his fingers lingers.
When I hear his voice through the bathroom door, the relief hits me so hard my knees buckle.
"Where is he?"
I come out. Vaughn's standing by our table in full leather — jacket, boots, the whole outfit — looking like the kind of man that other men cross the street to avoid.
His hair's down from the bun, dark and loose around his jaw, and his eyes are locked on Brett with the flat, assessing gaze of someone deciding exactly how much force the situation requires.
Brett has gone pale. To his credit, he hasn't stood up, which means whatever survival instinct he possesses is functioning correctly.
I cross the restaurant and Vaughn moves immediately — one step, smooth and certain, putting his body between me and the table. His hand finds the small of my back. Warm. Steady. Not grabbing. Just there.
"We're leaving," Vaughn says to Brett. Not a question. Not a suggestion.
"We're in the middle of dinner," Brett protests, but his voice has lost all its confidence. He reaches toward me and Vaughn catches his wrist — the same way Brett caught mine, except Vaughn's grip makes Brett wince.
"No," Vaughn says. "We're not."
"Robin—"
I press against Vaughn's back, my forehead between his shoulder blades, and I can feel his heartbeat. Slow. Perfectly steady. Mine is hammering and his is calm, and the contrast makes me want to crawl inside his jacket and never come out.
"We're done, Brett."