26
Aura
Easton showed up at seven sharp looking like he had personally declared war on every standard I had ever pretended to have.
Black jeans. Black boots. A dark button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Short blond hair styled just enough to make me suspicious, jaw clean-shaven, mouth serious, eyes doing that blue-green-gray thing that made him look like bad decisions had been handcrafted into a person and sent directly to my front door.
I opened said door and stared at him.
He stared back.
His gaze moved from my heels to my dress to my face, then paused there long enough for the silence to become deeply flattering and mildly dangerous.
“You look…” His throat worked. “Holy shit.”
I leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “That was almost smooth.”
“I had words planned.”
“Where did they go?”
His eyes dropped to my mouth. “You’re wearing red.”
“I am.”
“That was aggressive.”
“The dress or the lipstick?”
“Yes.”
I smiled, and the way his gaze sharpened made every minute I had spent curling the ends of my braids worth it. “You look like you’re about to ask my father for a dowry.”
His mouth twitched. “I was going for responsible boyfriend.”
“That outfit says you own a wine key.”
“I watched a video.”
I blinked. “You watched a video?”
“It seemed like the kind of thing men should know if they’re taking a woman to dinner somewhere with folded napkins.”
My chest did something deeply annoying and soft.
I covered it with a slow look down his body. “You watched a wine-key video for me?”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to make me emotionally naked before we get to the truck.”
“You’re wearing a fitted shirt and saying things like folded napkins. That ship sailed.”
He exhaled through his nose, fighting a smile, then held out his hand. “Ready?”
I looked at his hand for half a second longer than necessary.
Not because I didn’t want it.
Because I did.
Because the night before had rewritten so much between us that my body still expected the world to correct itself by taking him away again. He noticed. He always noticed. His fingers stayed open, patient, not reaching for me until I chose.
I slid my hand into his.
His thumb brushed mine once.
Simple. Devastating. Rude.
“I’m ready,” I said.
By the time we reached the parking lot, I had figured out he had a plan.
Easton Wade with a plan was a very specific thing.
His shoulders were loose, but not fully.
His jaw was calm, but not casual. His hand stayed at my lower back as he walked me to his truck, and every few steps, he glanced at me like he wanted to make sure I was still there and he hadn’t hallucinated me into the evening.
I let him open the passenger door because he looked like he might physically suffer if I didn’t.
“Thank you,” I said, climbing in.
His eyes flicked to my legs because the dress rode up when I sat.
I arched a brow. “Responsible boyfriend.”
He gripped the top of the door. “I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
I laughed, and he shut the door before I could ruin him further.
The truck smelled like him, clean soap, cold air, faint motor oil, and the peppermint gum he kept in the cup holder.
There was a dark jacket folded in the back seat, and a small bouquet of flowers tucked on top of it, not roses.
Bright little wildflowers in pink, yellow, and white, tied with grocery-store twine like he had stood there glaring at a floral display until it surrendered.
When he climbed into the driver’s side, I picked them up.
He went still.
“Don’t make it weird,” he said.
I touched one yellow petal with my finger. “You bought me flowers.”
“I know. I was there.”
“They’re not roses.”
“You don’t seem like a roses girl.”
“What do I seem like?”
He started the truck, but his eyes stayed on me. “Like roses would bore you, and you’d pretend to like them because you’re polite in public when you’re not busy causing emotional property damage.”
“That is disturbingly well observed.”
“I pay attention.”
The words landed quietly between us.
I looked down at the flowers, then back at him. “Thank you.”
His mouth softened, and for one second, there was no truck, no date, no terrifying new version of us trying to stand on fresh legs. Just Easton looking at me like gratitude from my mouth mattered.
Then the engine made a sound like a garbage disposal full of pennies.
Easton froze.
I blinked. “Was that part of the video?”
“Don’t.”
The truck shuddered.
He looked at the dashboard.
A little orange light blinked at us like a demon with excellent timing.
I slowly turned toward him. “Responsible boyfriend.”
“Do not start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face is doing a lot.”
“My face has concerns.”
He put the truck in reverse.
It moved three feet, coughed like a dying appliance, and then stopped.
The silence that followed was so complete I could hear my own lips pressing together.
Easton closed his eyes.
I whispered, “Should I get out and push, or would that harm your masculinity?”
His eyes opened. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I am trying not to.”
“You’re failing.”
“I know.” I covered my mouth with the bouquet. “I’m sorry.”
“You are not.”
“I’m emotionally sorry.”
“That means nothing.”
The truck made another miserable little ticking sound.
I lost the fight and laughed.
Easton stared through the windshield like the universe had become personal. “I had reservations.”
That stopped me faster than it should have.
“At a folded-napkin place?” I asked.
His jaw moved. “Yeah.”
“Easton.”
“It’s fine.”
“It is very obviously not fine.”
“It’s fine in the way that my truck is dead, our reservation is in twenty-seven minutes, and I’m about to Uber to a date I had one chance to do right.”
The laughter drained out of me, replaced by something warmer and worse.
I set the flowers carefully on my lap. “You think you only had one chance?”
He looked over at me.
The frustration in his face cracked just enough for me to see the fear under it.
“I wanted tonight to be perfect,” he said.
My chest tightened.
I reached across the console and took his hand. “Then it is very unfortunate you invited me. Perfect and I have a hostile working relationship.”
His laugh came out despite himself.
“There’s my helpful girl,” he muttered.
I smiled. “Your sexy girl was unavailable. She’s busy judging the vehicle.”
He lifted our joined hands and kissed my knuckles. “I’ll call an Uber.”
“Do not sound like you’re announcing a death in the family.”
“My truck died in formalwear. This is grief.”
The Uber driver’s name was Debra.
Debra arrived in a red minivan with three bumper stickers, six dashboard crystals, a dreamcatcher hanging from the rearview mirror, and the emotional energy of a woman who had never minded her own business in her life.
She rolled down the window as we approached. “Easton?”
Easton glanced at me.
I smiled sweetly. “Go on.”
He sighed. “That’s me.”
Debra’s eyes went from him to me, then back to him with immediate, predatory delight. “Oh, this is a date.”
Easton opened the door for me. “It was supposed to be.”
I climbed into the back. “Still is.”
Debra gasped. “That was beautiful.”
Easton muttered, “Please don’t encourage her.”
Debra put the minivan in drive before he had fully shut his door. “Where we headed, beautiful disasters?”
“The North Pier Room,” Easton said.
Debra whistled. “Fancy. Somebody messed up.”
I pointed at him. “He’s groveling with napkins.”
Easton’s head turned slowly. “I am not groveling with napkins.”
“Then what would you call this outfit?”
“Appropriate dinner attire.”
Debra looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Honey, that shirt says apology and upper-body confidence.”
I slapped a hand over my mouth.
Easton stared at the back of her seat. “This is going poorly.”
“No, baby, this is going memorable,” Debra said. “Poorly is my second husband trying to propose at a funeral because, and I quote, love should meet grief where it lives.”
I leaned forward. “Debra, I need you to know I’m obsessed with you.”
“I get that a lot.”
Easton looked out the window like he was praying for patience in a nonverbal way.
Debra took a turn that did not appear to be toward the lake. Easton sat up. “Isn’t the restaurant the other direction?”
“Construction.”
“There wasn’t construction on the app.”
“The app doesn’t know everything. The app also told me my third husband’s house was four minutes away, and that man was emotionally unreachable for eight years.”
I nodded. “Valid.”
Easton’s jaw flexed. “We’re going to miss the reservation.”
Debra met my eyes in the mirror. “He always this tense?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
We answered at the same time.
Debra laughed. “Good. Chemistry.”
Easton rubbed his forehead. “I’m being bullied by transportation.”
“You’re being humbled by fate,” Debra said. “Fate loves a couple with cheekbones.”
I looked at him. “She’s not wrong.”
“She is driving away from dinner.”
“Fate takes scenic routes.”
Five minutes later, Debra’s phone rang through the speakers. The screen on the dash flashed Tina Psychic.
Debra answered. “Talk to me.”
A woman’s voice filled the van. “Your ferret is at Greg’s again.”
Debra gasped. “Emotional support ferret or regular ferret?”
“Debra.”
“I’m with clients.”
“Greg said if you don’t get Pickle within twenty minutes, he’s letting him loose in the garage.”
Debra slammed on the blinker with alarming force. “That man has no respect for attachment theory.”
Easton turned his head very slowly.
I whispered, “Don’t you dare complain. Pickle needs her.”
Debra pulled to the curb in front of a block of little storefronts, all rain-slicked windows and neon signs. “Beautiful disasters, I’m going to have to drop you here.”
Easton stared at her. “Here?”
She pointed through the windshield. “You’ve got a bar, a taco place, a thrift shop, and a dentist. That’s a whole evening.”
I leaned toward the window.
On the corner, beneath a bent gold sign glowing through the mist, sat a narrow lounge with dark windows and a halo-shaped neon sign flickering above the door.
THE BENT HALO
Underneath, a chalkboard sign read: