Chapter Three
The Anchor looks different at night.
I’ve been here plenty of times to have lunch with Willa, but arriving alone on a summer evening feels different. Do they change their entire vibe after sunset or have I never paid attention to it before?
The restaurant’s wooden deck stretches out over the water and is lined with lanterns. There are candles and small jars of wildflowers on the tables. Even the tablecloths are different; pristine white instead of the colorful pink during lunchtime.
It’s really lovely, but also extremely romantic. Broven is coming here to discuss fake dating me, but this could definitely make him doubt the fake part of that arrangement.
“Welcome to The Anchor. Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asks me with a smile.
“Yes, Daisy Tully. Table for two,” I say.
“Please follow me, Miss Tully.”
She leads me to a table right at the edge of the deck which seems to be the most romantic spot of this entire restaurant. It’s in a corner, so it’s pretty quiet and intimate, and it’s so close to the lake that you can hear the gentle lapping of the water hitting the support beams of the deck.
“Is this okay?” the hostess asks when she sees me frown.
I give her a smile. “Perfect, thanks.”
I sit down and hang my purse over the back of the chair. My hands are shaking, but I don’t know why I’m feeling so jittery. I’m here to discuss a fake dating arrangement over dinner, plain and simple.
I look at my watch. I’m ten minutes early, as usual.
A few tables in front of me, a group of people is celebrating something with a bottle of champagne. One of the women shows off a sparkling diamond ring, so I bet she just got engaged.
A couple at the table next to them is sharing a dessert and gazing into each other’s eyes. The second I dare to glance at the menu, a man drops to his knees two tables to the left and proposes.
Is this some kind of elaborate joke or is romance required at this restaurant? I swear it’s nothing like this during the day. Willa and I often share the space with pensioners and tourists in floral shirts.
It’s too late to suggest a different venue now of course. Besides, I don’t even have Broven’s phone number.
It doesn’t matter anyway. This is fine. We’re having a practical meeting.
It just happens to be taking place somewhere with candles and wildflowers and engaged couples.
That’s not my fault. I suggested The Anchor because the food is good and the outdoor seating means we can talk without being overheard.
I smooth the skirt of my dress over my knees.
It’s ankle-length and baby-pink, perfect for outdoor evening dining.
Yes, the dress shows off my best parts, but mosquitoes are a genuine problem at this time of year and my legs would be exposed in anything shorter, which is a health consideration, not a fashion one.
I also did my makeup, which I normally don’t do on a weeknight, but this is a fancy restaurant. And yes, I curled my hair, but not because it frames my face in the best way possible.
The thing is, this matters. That’s why I made an effort.
Not because Broven is… I mean, I don’t even know him.
He’s a practical solution to a specific problem and the reason I made an effort tonight is because I need him to actually go through with this.
I need him to look at me across a table and think ‘yes, I can convincingly pretend this person is someone I’d date’.
The last thing I need is to turn up looking like I just came off a nine-hour shift with rainbow sprinkles in my hair and have him quietly reconsider his offer.
I need Greg’s guests to believe us. I want the people who heard his version of events, the ones who nodded along and said oh, poor Greg, she must have been mad to let him go, to look at me and see someone who is absolutely fine. No, who is better than fine.
So the dress and the make-up are strategic. So is the curled hair. None of it has anything to do with Broven and how he walked into my shop this afternoon, looking at me in a way that made my body temperature spike and made me… well, wet.
Which is something that I haven’t been able to fully explain to myself. I’ve never ever had to change my panties after talking to a man for a few minutes.
But it wasn’t an everyday thing. I meet people every day.
That’s the whole job, essentially. I’m warm and friendly and sell ice cream.
I make small talk while I scoop. I’m good at it and I like it.
But this afternoon was different in a way I can’t pin down and I’ve been turning it over since he left, trying to work out what the difference was, and I keep coming up blank.
All he did was look at me and it made the world tilt off its axis.
I’m being ridiculous. Broven’s a roofer who overheard a private phone call and made a practical offer. I accepted it because I’m desperate and he’s large and Greg is going to hate us showing up together. End of story. There is no other story.
The candle on my table flickers, and I look out at the water for a while.
A boat moves slowly across the far side, its light a small steady point in the dark.
Someone at the celebration table laughs loudly.
The couple sharing dessert have moved on to holding hands and the man who proposed is still kissing his bride-to-be.
I check the time again. Two minutes to seven. I straighten up a little and turn toward the entrance to the deck, where the wooden steps come up from the path along the shore, because I’d rather see him arriving than be caught staring at a candle when he gets here.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of the water and the low hum of other people’s conversations.
And then I see him.
He’s coming along the path from the direction of the lake, still a little way off, but even from a distance there’s no mistaking him. He’s huge and green after all.
He’s changed out of his work clothes and is wearing dark jeans and a shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.
The lights catch the angles of his face. His tusks. The width of his shoulders. His mouth.
God, his mouth.
I swallow and pray I don’t forget how to breathe once he’s at the table.