17. Hadley
Chapter seventeen
Hadley
“Am I dressed alright?” I run a hand down the little black dress I settled on for our “date.”
I honestly wasn’t sure what to wear, and when I saw this hanging in the back of my closet, I knew it was the one. It screams sexy and confident, at least to me, and that’s exactly how I need to feel if I’m going to be in front of a camera for pictures that will end up on the Storm’s social media.
Weston blinks a few times before nodding. “Yep. It’s great. Looks great on you, Hadley Jane. Perfect. Great.”
How many times can a man say great in a span of sixty seconds?
“Great, Weston Reynolds. You look great, too.”
I can’t help myself.
He chuckles. “We should go downstairs and wait for the car. It’ll be here shortly.”
“We’re not driving ourselves?”
“Nope,” he says simply as I follow him out of the apartment and onto the elevator.
“Perfect timing,” he says as we walk across the lobby. He gestures to the black SUV that’s just pulling to a halt by the curb.
“This is a bit much,” I mutter as we head to the waiting car, where we greet the driver before climbing into the backseat.
“We should be at the restaurant in twenty minutes, sir,” the driver says as he pulls away from the curb.
“Thank you.” Weston pulls out his phone and types something on it before shoving it in his pocket and turning to me.
“Thank you again for agreeing to this,” he murmurs. “Sutton promised me it won’t be too invasive. You do like steak, right?” He swallows. “Probably should have asked that before I made reservations at a steak house.”
“I enjoy a well-cooked piece of meat.” He smirks, and I shove his shoulder. “Stop it. Get your mind out of the gutter …”
He grabs my hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it before meeting my eyes.
“You’re the one who said it, Hadley Jane.” He winks at me, and I swoon a little. Damn him.
I shake my head, pulling my hand away, and he lets it go, but not before giving it a quick squeeze.
The drive is indeed short, and when we pull up to the restaurant, the driver once again opens our doors for us. My heart races as we step out onto the sidewalk. Weston puts his hand on the small of my back, and I can’t help the shiver that runs through me at the contact.
We’re greeted by a young guy, Max, from the Storm’s social media team. He snaps a few pictures of us as we walk toward the front door.
“Breathe,” Wes whispers as he leads me inside the restaurant.
The hostess greets us and takes us to a small private room, as Max trails behind us. The server arrives quickly and takes our drinks order—a glass of red wine for me and a beer for Weston.
Weston chats with Max while I read over the menu, although I don’t take in most of what I’m reading because I’m worried that I’ll say or do the wrong thing and give away that Weston and I are fake. When our server returns with our drinks, I take a big gulp of my wine, needing the liquid courage.
Max tells us to act naturally as he peers through his camera lens, ready to take a few more pictures.
Weston reaches across the table for my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before peering down at his menu.
My heart hammers in my chest as I try to ignore the camera, focusing instead on Weston’s warm hand wrapped around mine.
“How about we toast?” Weston asks, turning to Max once he tells us he’s done. “You good with that?”
“Yeah, that’ll be a great photo. Mind if I get a video of it too? We’ll mute the sound and add music over it, so don’t worry about saying anything.”
“Fine with me,” I say, and Weston nods.
I grab my wine glass, lifting it to clink with Weston’s, and turn to face the camera.
My hands shake a little, and I really hope it’s not noticeable.
Max takes a few photos first, and then directs us to put our glasses down and start our toast all over again so that he can capture it on video.
We do as he says. I really hope we’re convincing.
Max seems to think so as he thanks us for our time, then leaves us to enjoy our meal, saying he’ll meet up with us at the end of the night.
“You okay?” Weston asks when we’re alone.
“I’m fine.” I take another sip from my wine as he watches me. “Fine. I’m nervous.”
His expression softens. “Why? Do you not want to eat here? We can go somewhere else …”
I shake my head. “It’s not the restaurant.
Well, not really. It’s more having to pretend for the camera.
And being on a date with you.” I grimace, and his expression falls.
I put up a hand. “No, wait, that came out wrong.” He tilts his head, studying me.
“I just meant aside from Henry’s party, we haven’t done anything this fancy or formal together.
We hang out at your place or get takeout.
Not that I’m complaining. I just …” I fiddle with my wine glass.
“Oh.” He blows out a breath. “Pretend we’re just out for tacos.”
I tap my finger against the menu. “These aren’t taco prices.”
“Fair enough. There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just you and me.”
And that’s another reason why I’m nervous. We keep spending more and more time together, and I find myself liking it. Falling more for the man across the table from me. And that’s dangerous.
“Did you decide what you want to eat?” He picks up his menu.
“Nope.” I read the menu again, and this time I’m able to focus on the words in front of me.
“Okay,” I say a few minutes later. “I’m getting the eight-ounce center-cut filet. What about you?”
“I was thinking the same thing, but the twelve-ounce. Do you want to share a few sides?”
“Sounds good.”
We debate what sides to order and eventually settle on bacon and cheddar mashed potatoes, sautéed broccoli, and fresh asparagus. I lose the argument for also getting the lobster mac and cheese. The waiter comes back, and we put in our order.
“Did I do good?” Weston asks once we’re alone again.
I crinkle my brow at him, finishing my glass of wine. “Do good?”
“I wasn’t sure where to take you on our first date.”
Is he blushing?
“This is perfect, Weston. Although you know it’s not real …”
He shrugs, taking a sip of his beer. “It needed to appear real.”
I take in the private room we’re in, hearing the faint hum of classical music streaming in along with the sounds of other patrons talking and utensils clinking in the dining room. “I think it does.”
“We should take a selfie,” he suggests, pulling out his phone. “I’ll share it on social media and tag you.”
“Good idea.”
He moves his chair closer to me and drapes his arm around me.
I smile at the camera, all the while trying not to think about how good it feels to have him touching me.
We’ve hugged—I know what it’s like to touch him.
So why does this feel like more? I push the thought away.
It’s neither here nor there. This is just fake.
We’re fake. We’re friends but nothing more. We can never be anything more.
Once he’s satisfied with the pictures, he moves back to his side of the table, and we chat about random things while we wait for our food to come.
I’m not sure if it’s the wine or him, but eventually, I start to relax and genuinely enjoy the evening.
Pretty soon, the waiter is returning with our food.
“Holy shit,” I mutter when I finish my first bite of steak. It’s cooked to perfection and melts in my mouth. Good grief. A girl could get used to eating this way.
“Good, eh?” Weston asks as he serves himself up a couple of spoonfuls of potatoes and vegetables.
“Good is an understatement,” I tell him around another bite of steak. I try the mashed potatoes, and I swear my eyes roll into the back of my head. “You’re spoiling me, Weston.”
“I’ll take you here as often as you want.”
“Don’t say something you don’t mean,” I tell him before taking a bite of the asparagus. It’s delicious too. Not as good as the steak and potatoes, but it’ll do. “Even the veggies are good.”
Weston barks out a laugh, focusing back on his food.
Conversation is minimal as we eat our dinner.
“Would you care for dessert?” the server asks when he comes to clear our empty plates.
I lean back in my chair, patting my stomach. “While I’d love a piece of your chocolate cake, I don’t think I can eat another bite.” Which is a shame because I was excited to try it. It sounded to die for.
“We’ll take a piece to go, though,” Weston says, winking at me. “And a salted caramel brownie.” He licks his lips, and I focus on the movement.
“Of course. I’ll be back with that in a few minutes,” the waiter says before taking away our empty dinner plates.
“You didn’t have to do that. We have cookies at home.”
“What my lady wants, she gets. Besides, the cookies will still be good tomorrow.”
I narrow my eyes. “Fine, but you’re sharing that brownie.”
“Of course.”
The waiter eventually comes back with the check and our to-go boxes of desserts.
“I should text Max and tell him we’re ready. And the driver.” Weston pulls out his phone.
I fiddle with my ring.
I don’t want this night to end. I’ve had a lot of fun with Weston. It helps that the food was fantastic, but the company was great too.
I can’t think that way.
It’s only because I haven’t been on a date in a while, that’s all. It’s nice to get dressed up and go out.
It’s not at all because my feelings for Weston are growing the more time I spend with him. Nope, that’s not it at all.
I take it back. This night needs to end so that I can get some space from him. Before I do something stupid like fall for my fake fiancé.