Chapter 3
Lindsay
I’m sitting at a corner table in Meridian, a mid-tier restaurant that Red specifically chose because it’s “nice enough to feel special but not so expensive that anyone feels obligated.” The place strikes a perfect balance between casual and upscale with exposed brick walls and soft lighting that makes everyone look like they have good skin.
Edison bulbs hang from wrought iron fixtures over tables set with simple white linens and small potted herbs of rosemary and thyme.
I arrived five minutes early, which is unusual for me because punctuality has always felt like giving someone else too much power, but tonight feels different.
I don’t know his net worth, his family connections, or whether he went to the right schools.
I don’t even know his last name or whether he’s also a shifter.
Red’s instructions were clear. We’re to stick to first names only, no occupations beyond vague descriptions, and absolutely no research beforehand. “Trust the process,” she’d said with a knowing tone.
The waiter approaches for the third time, clearly concerned I’ve been abandoned.
He’s young, probably fresh out of college, with earnest helpfulness that suggests he’s still optimistic about human nature and believes in happy endings.
His name tag reads “Chad,” and he’s been hovering nearby with increasing frequency as the minutes tick by.
“Would you like to order an appetizer while you wait?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I check my phone. It’s seven minutes past our agreed time, which isn’t late enough to qualify as rude but makes me wonder if punctuality matters to him. With my usual dates, I could predict their arrival time based on their profession and personality type.
Investment bankers arrive exactly on time because tardiness suggests poor time management.
Artists show up fifteen minutes late because they’ve cultivated an image of creative spontaneity.
Politicians arrive early to scope out the venue and identify potential networking opportunities.
Josh remains completely unknown, which is both unsettling and oddly exhilarating.
The restaurant’s front door opens, letting in a gust of cool evening air.
A man walks in, scanning the room with careful attention.
He’s tall, probably six-two, with dark hair that’s slightly mussed from the wind and shoulders that indicate he spends time doing actual physical work rather than just going to the gym.
I recognize him from the close-up face shot Red sent to my phone when we agreed to the date and exchanged photos with her acting as our intermediary.
In his selfie, he’s wearing a suit but tonight, he’s wearing dark jeans that look comfortable rather than designer and a button-down shirt in navy blue.
The ensemble makes him look more approachable than the men who show up in thousand-dollar suits trying to communicate their success through fabric choices.
Something about the way he moves through the restaurant catches my attention.
There’s no hesitation or uncertainty, and no pausing to check his reflection in the window or adjust his appearance.
He utilizes purposeful movement to get where he’s going, and when he spots me, I see a moment of recognition that makes my stomach clench genuinely and involuntarily.
Our gazes meet across the restaurant, and there’s a moment of mutual assessment that has nothing to do with photographs.
He continues walking toward me without hesitation or awkward checking of his phone to compare me to the selfie I sent him so he can confirm I’m the right person.
He maintains direct eye contact with the beginning of a smile that reaches his eyes before it reaches his mouth as he arrives at the table.
“Lindsay?” His voice carries a slight accent I can’t place, something that suggests wide open spaces rather than city streets. There’s warmth in it and a directness that makes me think he’s not used to playing games.
“That’s me.” I stand to shake his hand, and his grip is firm without trying to prove anything.
His skin is slightly rough, which confirms my suspicion about physical work, and his presence makes the restaurant feel smaller.
Not in a claustrophobic way, but in a way that draws focus.
Up close, I see his eyes are actually more hazel than brown like the headshot suggested, with flecks of green that become more prominent when he smiles.
“Josh.” He pulls out my chair as I sit back down, and the gesture feels natural rather than performative.
There’s no flourish or expectation of gratitude, just automatic courtesy that suggests good manners are habit rather than strategy.
“Sorry I’m a few minutes late. I was trying to find parking that wouldn’t require a small loan. ”
I laugh, surprised by how genuine it sounds. Usually my first-date laughter is calculated, designed to encourage the right kind of conversation or signal my appreciation for wit. This laugh just happens, bubbling up without analysis or intention. “The city’s not exactly designed for visitors.”
“Is it obvious I’m not from around here?” He settles into his chair with an ease that suggests he’s comfortable in his own skin, even in unfamiliar environments. There’s no fidgeting or nervous energy, and he doesn’t scan the room to see who else is here or if we’re being noticed.
“The parking comment was a giveaway.” I study his face, trying to read the details Red wouldn’t tell me.
He has a strong jaw with a day’s worth of stubble that looks deliberate rather than careless, laugh lines around his eyes that suggest he spends time outdoors and finds plenty to smile about, and an alertness that makes me think he’s used to being responsible for things that matter.
“Plus, you have that look of someone who’s used to having more space around him. ”
“That obvious?” Josh grins, and it transforms his whole face. “I keep forgetting how close everything is here. Where I live, you can’t see your nearest neighbor from your front door.”
“That sounds peaceful.” I realize I mean it, which surprises me because I’ve always thought of rural life as boring and restrictive. “Where are you from?”
“Upstate. Rural area you probably haven’t heard of.” He picks up the menu but doesn’t hide behind it the way some men do when they’re nervous or trying to avoid eye contact. “What about you? Born and raised in Manhattan?”
“Close enough.” I’m deliberately vague because Red’s rules prohibit specifics but also because I’m curious how long we can maintain a conversation without our usual reference points.
It’s like playing a game where the rules keep changing, except instead of frustrating, it feels liberating.
“I’ve lived here most of my adult life.”
Chad the waiter appears again, clearly relieved I’m no longer dining alone.
He’s probably seen enough awkward first dates to recognize the signs of mutual interest, and something seems almost conspiratorial in the way he takes our drink orders.
Josh asks for a local craft beer whose name I don’t recognize, and I choose a Pinot Grigio from their by-the-glass selection.
Something feels refreshing about not analyzing his choice for hidden meaning.
With my usual dates, drink selection reveals education level, cultural sophistication, and financial status.
Wine knowledge indicates refinement or pretension, beer suggests down-to-earth authenticity or lack of sophistication, and cocktails reveal creativity or high maintenance. Tonight, a beer is just a beer.
“So, Red mentioned you work in agricultural consulting,” he says once Chad leaves with our order. “That must be interesting.”
Agricultural consulting. That’s how Red described my involvement with Caldwell Industries’ sustainable farming initiatives, and technically, it’s accurate even if it’s missing about ninety percent of the context. “It has its moments. Land management is your thing. Right?”
“Something like that.” His smile suggests he’s as amused by our vague job descriptions as I am. “I spend most of my time making sure everything runs smoothly, which is more complicated than it sounds.”
“Everything has complications people don’t see from the outside.” I lean forward slightly, genuinely curious rather than feigning interest. “What’s the most surprising part of what you do?”
He considers the question while our drinks arrive, and I appreciate he’s actually thinking instead of delivering a rehearsed answer.
He takes a sip of his beer first, and his expression shifts as he formulates his response.
It’s attractive watching someone think, especially when they’re not performing their intelligence for your benefit.
“Probably how much of it involves paperwork and phone calls rather than being outside. People have this idea that land management is all fresh air and physical labor, but most of my day is spent dealing with regulations, supply chains, and making sure forty-plus people stay employed.”
Forty-plus employees. That suggests a substantial operation, which intrigues me more than it should given Red’s instructions to avoid making assumptions. I wonder what kind of land management requires that much staffing. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“It is.” He takes another sip of his beer and studies me with the same careful attention I’ve been giving him.
Something in his gaze makes me feel seen rather than evaluated, which is a distinction I didn’t know existed until this moment.
“What about agricultural consulting? Do you work with large operations or more boutique situations?”