12. The Date
EVA
The minute hand on my watch is a traitor. It ticks onward, indifferent to the chaos I can’t fight fast enough. I’m struggling to keep afloat in a sea of tulle and misplaced table settings, all while nursing what feels like the start of an ulcer. But through it all, there’s only one thing I can think about.
That kiss with West, oh my God. Hands down, no question, the best of my life. I’ll be daydreaming about it forever because it’s seared into my brain as the ultimate. West ruined me for guys everywhere because now I know that kind of kiss—the one that makes your heart float, your body buzz, and your knees give out because every nerve ending is short-circuiting.
I’m rushing through the foyer when I bump into my dad and Foster. After exchanging pleasantries, I’m itching to leave so I can pick up the decorations for tonight’s bachelorette party. But Dad says, “Eva, Paige told me you’ve got the next two hours free.”
What?Yes, I don’t officially have anything on the calendar, but I have a to-do list a mile high. “I was just about to—”
“Foster has a surprise for you, Eva.” Dad’s gaze is hard. “Surely you can spare a little time for the efforts he’s made?”
I look at Foster’s smiling face, and I know I can’t say no. How long can his surprise be? An hour, at most? I could ask Skye to pick up the decorations and check on my dessert statue, which is in the kitchen’s refrigerator with signage threatening the lives of anyone who touches it. But still—a checkup would be good.
“Brunch,” Foster says, a charming single word. “You look like you could use some air. He gestures out the glass doors where a valet is waiting.
“I could,” I squeak out, my nerves jangling like a set of keys. I can handle crises—florist mix-ups, cake disasters, bridesmaid meltdowns—but leaving the premises? That seems like a bridge too far. But with Dad and Foster looking at me expectantly, I paint on a smile and say, “That would be lovely.”
“Wonderful.” Foster’s eyes brighten.
After Dad leaves, we make our way out the revolving doors. Foster nudges me gently with his elbow as we slip into his Lexus SUV rental. “It’s just brunch, Eva. The world won’t end if you take a break.”
“Tell that to the bridezilla who nearly decapitated the florist for using blush peonies instead of bashful ones.” I laugh, but the what-ifs swarm in my head like wasps. What if the caterer serves shellfish to Aunt Myrna, who’s allergic? What if Olivia—who couldn’t keep her hands off Zach last night—decides to declare her undying love for Zach mid-ceremony?
Foster chuckles as we pull away from the curb. “Write to your people and see how they do during your time away. Consider this an exercise in delegation.”
“Delegation,” I echo, the word tasting like bad fish. “Right. Because I’m not known for my ability to let go.” I sigh. “But you’re right. I need to try it.”
And as we drive, the tension in my shoulders dissipates. Maybe it’s the way Foster seems unfazed by anything. Or maybe it’s the thrill of doing something so against my control-freak nature. Either way, I can’t deny the flutter in my chest that’s less about panic and more about... anticipation?
I find myself actually looking forward to whatever Foster’s idea of brunch might be. Who knows? Maybe today’s the day I learn that letting go isn’t the same as giving up. Maybe I’m just making room for something—or someone—new.
The sleek black car pulls up to a sight that is definitely not a cozy brunch spot. There’s an unmistakable whir of rotors in the distance, and my stomach does a triple-twisting somersault.
“Wait, is that a helicopter?” My voice squeaks.
Foster glances at me, a grin creeping across his face. “Surprise.”
“Oh, wow.” I’m ready to barf up the brunch I haven’t even eaten yet.
“You nervous?”
“Little bit.” Not to mention that we are so, so not going to be back within the hour.
“I’ll be right here by your side.” He guides me with a hand that feels commanding and reassuring on my back.
As we approach the chopper, my heart jackhammers against my ribs. Foster’s hand never leaves me, a welcome touch against the fear threatening to unhinge me.
“Never been a fan of flying,” I confess as we strap in, my words nearly drowned out by the roar of the blades.
Foster leans close enough that his cologne mingles with the scent of aviation fuel. “I’ve got you. We’ll be up and down before you know it.”
“Yup,” I say, but grip the edges of my seat as if they’re the only things keeping me earthbound. “But if I puke, you’re holding the bag.”
“Deal.”
Liftoff is a stomach-dropping, head-spinning affair. St. Sebastian and the Georgia coast stretches beneath us, a tapestry of life and color that feels distant and unreal. My knuckles are white, but Foster’s presence is calming.
After several minutes of engaging in light chit-chat, I still find myself holding my breath and closing my eyes. Then, sure enough, I need a puff from my inhaler.
When I glance at Foster, he’s got a puzzled expression on his face but recovers quickly by saying, “Look at that view.”
“Um. Okay.” I risk a peek, and it’s breathtaking. We’re over Atlanta’s skyline, the city sprawling beneath us like a scene from a movie.
“Almost there.” I can hear the smile in his voice.
The Omni Hotel emerges like a beacon, and our descent onto the rooftop marks the end of this harrowing journey.
“See? Not so bad.” Foster helps me out of the helicopter.
“It wasn’t,” I say, still unsteady on my feet. Even I can’t deny the awe that seeps in as we’re ushered off the roof, down some steps, and into the restaurant.
It’s empty except for us, and the panoramic views of Atlanta are an array of beauty and grandeur. It’s a testament to Foster’s connections—and skills to impress.
“Wow,” I breathe, the word feeling small.
“Only the best for you.” There’s a seriousness in his tone that makes me realize that although we’ve just met, he’s all in.
“If the food is as good as the view, we’ll be blown away.”
“This is one of the five Michelin star-rated restaurants in Atlanta.” Foster pulls out my chair with a skill that’s practiced but no less charming.
“So a real dump?” I settle into my seat.
And as we sit perched above the world, I think that this unexpected detour could be the start of something good.
I swirl the wine in my glass, a rich, bold red that probably costs more than I would venture to guess. The first sip is like sin wrapped in velvet, and I have to remind myself not to guzzle it.
I set the glass down with reverence. “That’s… um, I don’t have a word for it.”
“Divine?” Foster’s eyes twinkle.
“Divine works.” I nod, the words rolling off my tongue. “This whole place is divine.”
Foster grins, pleased, and I can’t help but warm to him. Maybe he is a golden retriever, just in a tailor-made suit.
The appetizer arrives, something involving truffles and a foam that defies gravity. As I poke it with my fork, Foster launches into his dreams of his own law firm. His passion is palpable, his hands cutting through the air as he describes the kind he wants to create—one that’s ethical but powerful—a titan of justice.
“I love your passion,” I say, impressed and wishing I had the same.
“Thanks. Now it’s just the small detail of pulling it off.” He whisks out a self-deprecating laugh.
“Hey, details, schmetails.” I pop a bite of the appetizer. It tastes like clouds—delicious and perfectly seasoned.
“Your turn,” he says. “Tell me your aspirations.”
Phew—that request should be easy, but it’s not. Maybe it’s because I’ve never been one to count my chickens before they’re even conceived, let alone hatched. Or maybe it’s because I don’t know what they are anymore, exactly. “I want to grow my food business for sure.”
“Wait, food business?” Foster’s face twists.
I let out a laugh that’s more of a squawk. “Did I say food business? My bad, I misspoke. I meant my dad’s law firm.” I wave a hand, brushing off the slip. “Sorry. I left the firm for a stint to do my own catering business, which didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say in a rush. “Just still getting my brain to change gears. But my point is, I want to do great things for Steinberg Law—for my dad and myself.”
“We both have big shoes to fill.” Foster nods with understanding.
“No kidding. I might have to buy new shoes.” I lift my wine glass.
“Cheers to that.” He clinks his glass against mine.
And as we sit, talking dreams and sipping wine while the skyscrapers of Atlanta surround us, I think maybe I could get used to this kind of life. I mean, who couldn’t?
The server sets my plate down, and the flames leaping up from my filet mignon look like a circus act. “Wow,” I exhale, feeling the heat kiss my cheeks as the servers of the restaurant watch.
Foster’s grin is wide. “Wait until you taste it.”
“If I tried to cook this, I’d be eating char.” I lean back, not wanting my eyebrows to become a casualty.
“I like my food with a side of danger,” he says. The fire dies down, leaving behind an aroma that makes me actually hungry—a feat after that chopper ride.
“Here goes nothing.” I cut into the still-smoldering masterpiece and take a bite. Holy hell, it’s like a flavor bomb went off in my mouth. “This is incredible.”
“Right?” Foster’s manners are on full display as he waits for me to finish chewing before he takes his own bite. He uses his utensils with the precision of a surgeon and never speaks with his mouth full.
Fast-forward through dessert that’s more art than sugar, and we’re back in the helicopter, the city lights winking at us as we fade into the distance. We’ve been gone just over two hours, which should be okay.
Foster says, “I’d love to take you to my home in the Hamptons—just the two of us.”
Oh! That seems like a whole lot for someone I just met, and I’m trying to figure out how to answer when I’m saved by the proverbial bell.
My phone buzzes back to life as we touch down, and it goes nuts in my hand, vibrating like it’s in a rock band. Twenty-seven messages from Skye explode onto my screen, each one more frantic than the last. All from the time we’ve been in the air.
“Shit.” Paige has locked herself in a dressing room. Classic bridezilla move.
“Problem?” Foster leans in, his earlier charm replaced by an awkward tilt of the head.
“Paige is having a meltdown.” I scroll through the texts that paint a picture of the chaos.
“Ah, crap.” He winces, checking his watch. “I’ve got a tee time with your dad.”
“Of course, go.” I wave him off, hiding my pang of disappointment. “This is just par for my course. No pun intended.”
“Thanks for understanding.” Foster’s relief is clear as he offers a sympathetic smile.
No sooner has he disappeared than I’m texting West, using the code we developed for emergencies. MARSHMALLOW.