Chapter 6
Darby
Greg shifts closer, forearms settling near his glass, shoulders angling, and his attention set directly on me. The booth contracts, feeling smaller as the rest of the room slips out of focus.
“What about you?” His voice drops to a low, husky pitch.
My body reacts before my brain catches up. My pulse ticks an extra beat, my toes curl in my boots, and I shift my weight, unnerved by the crease between his brows.
“What about me?” I echo, stalling for a few seconds of time to gather my bearings.
“You ask a lot of questions,” he says, eyes concentrating on mine.
“Fire away.” Then, because apparently I enjoy tempting fate, I lift my chin with all the confidence I can muster and add, “Ask anything you want. I’m an open book.”
And fate sure has a funny sense of humor. Our server steps in to clear plates from the table and launches into a description of their seasonal dessert.
“Our chef has prepared a special Valentine’s dessert this evening,” she says, stacking the last plate.
And I’m already cringing. It’s all I can do to let her finish.
“It’s a warm flourless chocolate torte topped with macerated strawberries and vanilla mascarpone cream. We drizzle it with raspberry coulis and finish with candied citrus peel and shaved dark chocolate. Comes out on a shared plate with two forks.”
If she hadn’t billed it as a Valentine’s dessert, I’d consider it. But not under the circumstances. I catch myself wrinkling my nose. She notices and quickly moves on to the next item.
“If that doesn’t interest you, we have a molten chocolate lava cake with rose-infused syrup, fresh whipped cream, and strawberry hearts dusted with powdered sugar. Very romantic.”
She grins, her eyes flitting between the two of us. I force a smile and shake my head. Greg’s eyes flick to me before sliding back to the server.
“I’ll grab the check, then,” she says, already backing away.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Greg leans over the table. “What is it with you and Valentine’s Day?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Warmth creeps into my chest, and my voice comes out high-pitched and defensive.
A glint of something flashes in his eyes. We both know I’m lying, but will he be a gentleman and drop it?
“That wasn’t convincing,” he says. He glances down at his hands and toys with the paper straw wrapper the server missed.
“If I hadn’t overheard some of the conversation between you and your friends in class, I might believe you. But that nose crinkling thing you did there…”
He glances at me with a wicked grin so wide I can see his eye teeth. He slides his fingers across the table. When he draws them back, he’s left the straw wrapper behind—the paper twisted into a tight rope and shaped into a heart.
“... that’s your tell.”
I roll my eyes and pick up the damn thing.
“Fine. I’m the first one to raise my hand and say, feed me chocolate and call me pretty, but V-day.” My lips tighten and shake my head. “Cannot do. It’s purely transactional.”
Judging by the way his eyes sharpen instead of drifting away, that answer just opened a door I hadn’t intended to walk through yet.
My friends flash through my head. Kari and Grey cooking dinner together, Lola curled against Logan on the sofa, Gabby and Justice dancing in the firelight on Friday nights.
Everyone’s paired off living their magical lives while I bounce from flirtation to first date to meaningless sex and call it freedom.
Greg stares back at me, a crooked line etched across his brow. A second later his brows shoot up, and his head jerks backward.
“The number of roses a man gives…”
“Bingo,” I say. “They aren’t buying roses, chocolates, and diamonds for a peck on the cheek.
” The heat rising in my belly shifts from nervous energy to a passionate rebuke of dating men who do indeed expect things in return for their “effort.” “They aren’t buying dental floss panties and lacy lingerie for a woman’s comfort. ”
Greg splits his focus between me and the tables around us. I follow his gaze, but no one’s gasping for breath. Hell, even if they were, I wouldn’t care. Every woman in the restaurant would probably agree with me.
“Tell me how you really feel,” Greg finally says. “That’s a lot to unpack.”
And that’s not even the half of it.
The server picks that moment to return with the little leather folder tucked under her arm. She slides it onto the edge of the table with a polite smile. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Greg and I reach for it at the same time. My fingers land first. His hand slides over mine quicker than my next heartbeat. And boy is that heartbeat a doozy. It slams into my chest like it’s trying to land the first punch.
I stare at his hand. Broad enough to cover my knuckles with his thumb brushing the side of my index finger. My breath catches before I can stop it. The table feels too small, the air thicker than before.
I lift my eyes slowly, not sure why my body is cataloging the nerves splintering up my arm like a sparking power line in a lightning storm.
I find him watching me with an intensity that snaps straight through my chest and settles low in my stomach.
His pupils grow dark around the edges, laser focused on mine.
His jaw flexes and his fingers barely move as they gently hold mine in place. I swallow, caught in his slow, heated look. And my brain vacates the premises.
The server clears her throat. Greg blinks. And I struggle to form words.
“Let me get this,” Greg says, already reaching for the wallet in his back pocket.
My fingers curl around the leather folder and I slide my hand free from his. “My treat. I asked you out, remember.”
He eyes me for half a second before sliding his hand back to his side of the table. He nods as I fish my credit card out of my wallet and hand it to the server. We stare at each other, locked in silence as she runs the card through a mobile device.
As soon as she hands the card back and leaves the table, Greg leans forward again. This time he lowers his voice enough I have to lean in to hear.
“Tell me how this works. Is dinner first base or second?”
Greg
She blinks. Once. Twice. My eyes stay locked on her face as I try to keep a straight face. Her lips part as if she’s about to say something, but words fail her. Likely a first for a feisty woman like her.
The air between us hums and crackles with enough electricity to light a city block. And then I see it—the flash of recognition in her eyes. The corner of her mouth twitches, then lifts into a slow, deliberate grin. And I can’t look away.
We both know what just happened and I’m not backing down.
She leans back against the booth, fingers curling around her purse strap. “I have a three-date rule,” she says lightly, but her eyes stay sharp, tracking my reaction.
My brow lifts a fraction. If she thinks she hasn’t gotten a rise out of me, she has… in more places than one.
“First date’s a handshake,” she says, ticking it off on her fingers. “Second date… maybe a kiss.”
I shift, waiting, anticipating, but she says nothing. The pause stretches and her grin deepens, pleased with herself.
“And the third date?” I ask, my chest tightening.
Her eyes flicker, full of mischief. “To be determined.”
She slides from the booth in one fluid motion and shrugs into her coat. I slide out of the booth as fast as I can unfold my legs and follow her.
“I rarely make it to third-date status.” She snatches the paper heart from the table and flashes me a look over her shoulder.
It lands somewhere between a challenge and an invitation. And that does something very inconvenient to me.
I close the distance between us, stepping into her personal space long enough to catch the faint citrus bite of her sugared tea. “Sounds like you pick boring men,” I say, my voice coming low and rough.
She grabs the collar of my jacket and tugs it gently. “Good thing you’re not boring.”
Her laugh comes quick and low, eyes sparkling as she moves to the door. It floats on the chilly breeze, and lands in my next breath. When I climb into the passenger seat, there are no more words, no more witty remarks. Only silent reflection and the sound of music playing on the radio.
I sit with my hands folded and stare at the streetlights as they whiz past, trying to get my brain back to normal.
But it’s not in a cooperating kind of mood—not for practicality, planning, and staying safe.
I keep mulling over the woman who laughs loud and speaks her mind, letting the chips fall where they may.
She taps the steering wheel to the music, every few beats humming a bar. She speeds up as the light turns yellow, turns without using a blinker, slows when a squirrel pauses in the street. She’s a million contradictions of spontaneous action and profound deep thought.
I haven’t dated in years, because serious relationships require cultivation with a margin for error. I’ve watched what happens when people rush in without a plan, without thinking. Relationships—true partnerships—fracture when there isn’t a clear plan.
And Darby is anything but predictable.
She’s a gust of wind through an open door, an unexpected laugh in silence, disruptive and messy in the midst of structure.
But with all her big talk and sharp tongue, she’s as restless as I am.
Where I first saw trouble, I now see wisdom—lost on those who haven’t looked hard enough to see the woman beneath the snark.
But I see her.
My eyes drift back to her. She catches my reflection in the windshield. Her brow quirks, and the faintest smile tugs at her mouth. She eases into Green with Envy’s lot and throws the Jeep in park.
“I guess this is good night,” she says, not bothering to look at me, her lips stretched thin.
I undo my seatbelt and stay seated for a second longer before opening the door.
“Thanks for dinner.”
I close the door, stuff my hands in my pockets, and circle the back of the Jeep. Heat rises in my gut, cold night air trapped in my lungs. I’m unsettled, but more importantly, there’s unfinished business to put to rest.
I don’t have a plan, just instinct. I rap my knuckles against the fogged driver’s-side window.
Darby lowers the glass. Cold air rushes into the cab, fog curling out with her breath. Our eyes lock through the opening—hers curious—and something inside me finally snaps loose.
I step closer, then slide both palms along her jaw to cup her face. Her skin is warm against the cold outside, soft under my thumbs, and the unwavering look she gives me tips me forward the last inch.
“We already shook hands,” I murmur, my throat so tight it hurts to breathe.
My mouth crashes into hers, messy, far from careful. She makes a small sound against my lips that goes straight through me, and her hands come up fast, gripping my jacket, tugging me closer.
Her lips move under mine, quick and responsive. I angle my head to deepen it, letting the kiss slow just enough to feel her breath mingling with mine. My thumbs slide along her jaw, not caring that we’re in a public space.
When I finally pull back, it’s only an inch or two, just enough to look at her. Her eyes are dark, lips flushed, breath uneven as she stares up at me. My hands linger on her cheeks.
“Good night,” I say, my voice rough, breath ragged. But what we’ve started is far from over.