Chapter 33
Dom offers me his arm as we walk into the restaurant. He holds it out like this is something we always do, like we’re one of those adventurous couples who try new places to eat for fun.
We’re not a couple, and I’m not adventurous. But I slide my arm through the crook of his elbow anyway, ignoring the feelings it brings and turning my attention instead to the restaurant itself.
My first impression is one of romance—the soft lighting, the faint music, the flickering candlelight. My heels click on the marble floor as Dom leads us to the host stand, where an attentive man waits in a black-and-white uniform.
“Reservation for two under Berkeley,” Dominic says in a smooth, low voice, and I blink at him in surprise.
I guess it makes sense that he’d get a reservation; this place seems fancy enough that you’d need one. But I never thought to ask.
Turning my gaze to what I can see of the dining area behind the host, I scan the tables. It takes a few seconds to spot Alvina and Daryl, but thankfully, they’re off in one corner, next to a large column that surely can’t be made of marble.
But it looks marble, and there are more of them—the columns are tucked strategically around the edges of the room, simple and stately and so, so expensive-looking.
That’s going to be our best bet, I think; the table on the other side of the column next to our parents, close enough that hopefully we can listen but not be seen. I nudge Dominic and nod discreetly toward the spot; he looks and then returns my nod.
“Why is the reservation in my name?” I whisper as the host gestures for us to sit and wait for a moment.
“Because my father presumably made a reservation too,” he says quietly. “Also under the name Harper.”
Oh. Duh.
“It smells good,” I say, craning my neck and attempting to see past the host’s stand once more.
“I’m starving.” Then I turn to Dom, some of the anxious tension inside of me searching for an outlet.
“We need a cover story for why we’re here if our parents spot us.
I figured we could tell them we’re getting to know each other since they’re dating. ”
“That works.”
“Or do you think that’s too unbelievable?” I bite my lip, thinking. “We could say we knew they were coming here so we tagged along to try the food.”
Dom’s brows twitch. “That’s pretty much the truth.” Then he laughs. “Take that look off your face,” he says. “Don’t stress so much.”
“Me?” I say, disbelieving now. But come on—this is the man who refuses to tell his dad we dated. If anyone should be worrying, it’s him. “I’m not stressed. I’m great.”
I am not great. I am so far from great. I am a landmine, and one wrong step will cause me to detonate.
Dom’s smile lingers as he sighs. “Everything will be fine. We’re here to eat and take a look at our dating parents out in the wild.
” He pauses, the corners of his lips falling.
“If we can get a clue as to where their relationship is, all the better.” Then he nudges me with his elbow. “They’re ready for us. Let’s go.”
His hand hovers at the small of my back as we stand. Does he realize he’s doing that?
I don’t say anything, because I like it.
There. I said it. I like when a man’s hand hovers near me—not in a creepy way, obviously, but in an I’m-here-if-you-teeter way.
“We would like that table,” Dom says to the waiter—Charles, according to his name tag—when we reach the host stand, gesturing discreetly at the table behind the column, “if it’s possible.”
“Of course,” Charles says as the man at the host station nods. He tucks two large black menus beneath his arm and then smiles at us. “This way, please.”
We follow him more closely than is polite, and I feel totally stupid about it, but if he can shield us from our parents’ line of sight, that’s preferable.
His long strides carry us around the tables, and I scurry along behind, Dominic at my back, until we reach the spot we asked for—Alvina and Daryl none the wiser.
Success.
“Oh,” I say in surprise when Dom pulls my chair out for me—Charles nods in brisk approval—but I settle down like this is the norm for us.
The table is small, the tablecloth white, and there’s a delicate glass vase containing a single rose in the middle, accompanied by a realistic but hopefully fake candle.
Worry nags at me, but for the first time in twenty-four hours, most of it’s not centered on me and Dom and the kiss that didn’t happen.
It’s centered around the couple on the other side of this unnecessarily large column.
Because this could not more clearly be the kind of restaurant where people get engaged.
And although Alvina didn’t think it was likely, marrying Daryl, that doesn’t mean she won’t try.
Her drunk words from the wedding reception come back to me, and I wince at the pitiful hope I heard in her voice—We’ll live happily, see?
Please live happily somewhere else, Alvina, I find myself pleading, words I send into the ether. Anywhere but here.
I look up at the waiter as he begins to list off an impressive memorized spiel. Dom and I both very quickly usher him past his wine pairing suggestions and on to the food portion; he hands us our menus.
Dominic takes all of two seconds to choose his dinner. I had forgotten until this very moment that he did that. He always knew what he wanted to eat when we went out, while I had to get to know the menu first.
But this place smells delicious, and I’m sure everything is good.
Most of my focus will be elsewhere anyway; I just want to know what Alvina is up to.
So I point at the menu, barely paying attention, and then pass it to Charles in relief when he holds out his hand.
As soon as his back is to us, I swivel in my chair, leaning sideways toward the column.
“Put that on your lap, you heathen,” Dom says from next to me, and I look at him. He glances pointedly at the roll of silverware in their white napkin, placed neatly on the table in front of me.
“I’m hardly a heathen,” I say as I remove the silverware and then spread the napkin over my lap. “In fact, I seem to recall that while you keep your living space neat—”
“Very neat.”
“Your manners could use some work.”
“My manners?” Dom shoots back. “Only one of us was caught peeking through windows at our parents.”
“Yeah. And only one of us tossed the other in the bed of their truck in the rain—”
“I offered you the cab first,” he points out. “And what, did you want your bag to go there instead? So all of your stuff could get soaked?” He leans in, a gleam in his eye. “What would have happened to the box I saw if it got wet, hmm?”
I flush to remember my box of Dom memories clattering to the floor of the shed, right in front of him, but he goes on.
“Those ticket stubs would’ve been ruined in the rain, wouldn’t they? And the hat—” He breaks off, his lips twitching, and I snort too.
“Yeah. The hat was already ruined,” I say.
“Because you put it through the wash. Like a heathen.”
“Like a heathen,” I agree, but I can’t stop my smile. As my eyes drop to the feather necklace he’s wearing, the cord barely peeking out of his shirt, I swallow. My pulse jumps and my legs bounce a few times under the table. “I have to admit, though, it’s nice knowing I wasn’t the only one…”
Although I trail off, his gaze flies to mine.
His body stills as I reach toward him, my fingers finding the cord of our necklace and tugging it, pulling gently until I work it out from beneath his shirt.
I hold the little feather for a second before letting go; it falls and lands against his chest, deceptively simple for all the memories it evokes.
“Like a bird loves the sky,” I murmur without thinking as the charm catches the light of the flickering candle.
Dominic clears his throat, and I jump.
“I think we’re getting off-track,” he says in a hoarse voice. “We’re here to—” His eyes dart to the column. “To spy on our parents.” He pauses, his brows furrowing. “Like we’re in Parent Trap, except we’re not eleven, and therefore…possibly should be ashamed of our actions?”
“We discussed this already,” I say. “When we inadvertently dyed my mother’s hair. We agreed that some absurdity might be required.”
He hums. “Hair dye, Gregorian chant, spying,” he says, ticking them off with his fingers. “Yes. I’d say absurd is the right word.”
I’m glad he didn’t mention vomiting in his dad’s bushes.
“Do you think we could move this table over a bit?” I say, leaning forward so Dom can hear me better. “A tiny scoot?” Glancing at the column next to us, I go on, “Being closer might help.”
Dominic casts a critical eye over the table and then the space between us and the column. “We could probably move a bit. Steady the vase and the candle.”
I casually rest my hands next to them as under the table and tablecloth, Dominic lifts his knees. The table swivels rather than moves altogether, a few subtle inches, then a few more, until it’s perfectly reasonable for me to move my chair closer to the column as well.
“Excellent,” I say, draping my napkin back over my lap and settling in. I lean to the side again, my heart pounding in my chest for no other reason than that I’m sitting here with Dominic and tap dancing on a tightrope above the Grand Canyon.
My legs squirm beneath the table as I listen, trying to gather any hint or sign of what’s going on at Alvina’s table.
Dom and I make idle small talk every now and then, smiles over the candle and accidental foot brushes that cause us both to startle with disproportionate embarrassment—because we almost kissed and he wanted to marry me and did I mention how overloaded my brain is right now?
—but the most I hear from the other side of the column is the clink of glasses and occasional snippets of indecipherable voice.