Chapter Two
Dinner for Two
Quinn
If you had asked me three years ago what my life would look like right now, I probably would have said something cheesy like perfect.
A cute house. A steady relationship. A small-town life filled with simple happiness.
Instead, I’m sitting in a restaurant that smells like garlic butter and fried shrimp while my boyfriend stares at his phone like I’m the least interesting thing at the table.
Romance really is dead.
I swirl the straw in my iced tea and glance around the room for the hundredth time.
The place is busy tonight. The low murmur of conversation blends with country music playing softly from the speakers overhead.
Plates clatter in the kitchen, waitresses weave between tables, and somewhere near the back someone laughs loud enough to turn heads.
Normally I like this place.
The Magnolia Room is one of the nicer restaurants in Franklinton. White tablecloths, warm lighting, and a menu that tries very hard to feel upscale for a town that barely has five thousand people.
Tonight, though? Tonight it feels like a stage and I’m stuck performing the role of perfect girlfriend.
Across the table, Emette finally looks up from his phone. “You’re quiet tonight,” he says.
I blink at him. “I’ve been talking.”
His brows pull together slightly like that answer annoys him. “Yeah, but you’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“You know.” He waves his hand vaguely. “The distracted thing.”
I stare at him. I want to point out the irony of him accusing me of being distracted when he’s spent most of dinner texting someone. But experience has taught me that calling Emette out rarely ends well.
So instead I smile. Because that’s easier.
“Just a long day,” I say lightly.
It’s not even a lie. Between work, errands, and baking cupcakes for the House of Ink guys earlier, I’ve been on my feet most of the day.
And yes ... maybe my brain keeps drifting back to the shop.
To laughter. To cupcakes disappearing faster than I expected.
To Damien standing quietly near the counter with his glasses on, looking like some kind of ridiculously attractive math professor.
I shove that thought aside immediately. That’s dangerous territory.
“So,” I say, trying to redirect the conversation, “I stopped by House of Ink today.”
Emette’s mouth tightens slightly. Of course it does. He’s never liked that I go there.
“Again?” he says.
“It’s just cupcakes,” I reply.
“You’re spending a lot of time over there.”
The way he says it makes my stomach twist. Like I’m doing something wrong.
“They’re my friends, Emette.”
“They’re tattoo guys,” he counters.
“And?”
He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “And people talk.”
I stare at him, confused. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining something to a child, “that hanging around a tattoo shop all the time doesn’t exactly scream class.”
Oh... Well. Shit.
That stings more than I expected.
I fiddle with the edge of my napkin, trying to keep my tone calm. “They’re good people.”
“I’m not saying they’re not,” he replies quickly. “I’m just saying ... maybe you should think about the image you’re putting out there.”
My image. Right. Because apparently bringing cupcakes to friends is a public relations crisis.
I glance down at my outfit without thinking. A simple sundress and sandals. Nothing flashy but certainly nothing embarrassing.
Still... That familiar feeling creeps in. The one that whispers maybe he’s right. Maybe I could try a little harder. Maybe I could be a little better.
Our waitress appears with our food before the silence can stretch any longer.
“Chicken Alfredo for you,” she says, placing the plate in front of me. “And the ribeye for you, sir.”
Emette nods, already reaching for his steak knife. “Thanks.”
The waitress gives us both a friendly smile before moving on to the next table. For a few minutes we eat in silence. I try to focus on the pasta. It’s creamy and rich, exactly the way I like it. But the knot in my stomach makes it hard to enjoy.
“You should wear your hair straight more often,” Emette says suddenly.
I look up. “What?”
He gestures vaguely toward my head. “It looks more polished that way.”
I blink. “My hair is straight.”
“No, I mean like actually straight.” He makes a motion with his hand like he’s flattening something. “Like when you use that iron thing.”
The straightener. “Oh.” I twirl a strand of hair between my fingers. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It does,” he says.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Because arguing feels exhausting.
Emette cuts into his steak. “You’re not still thinking about going to that baking class thing, are you?”
My heart sinks. “It’s just a weekend workshop,” I say. “Nothing serious.”
“You don’t need it.”
“I thought it might be fun.”
He shrugs. “It’s a waste of money.”
Fun. Apparently fun is also a problem. I push my pasta around my plate.
Across the room, the restaurant door opens and a cool breeze slips inside along with the sound of traffic from the street. I glance up automatically and immediately wish I hadn’t. Because Damien Grey just walked in.
He pauses near the host stand, running a hand through his hair as he looks around the restaurant.
Even from across the room I can see the faint crease between his brows, like he’s already doing mental math. Which, honestly? He probably is.
Damien always looks a little out of place anywhere that isn’t behind a desk or surrounded by spreadsheets. But there’s something about him tonight.
He is wearing dark jeans and a fitted black t-shirt. His glasses perched on his nose. And he looks ... good. Really good.
My stomach does a weird little flip right then as he notices me. Our eyes meet for half a second, just long enough for recognition to spark, and he lifts his hand slightly in a casual greeting.
I smile and wave back.
Across the table, Emette follows my gaze. “Who’s that?”
My heart sinks again. “Damien,” I say. “Laine’s brother.”
Emette turns slightly to look at him. “Oh.”
The way he says it makes my skin prickle. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That didn’t sound like nothing.”
He shrugs. “He’s that accountant guy, right?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
I wait. Because there’s clearly more.
Emette leans forward slightly. “Didn’t he used to be that skinny nerd in high school?”
The words hit me like a slap and I sit up straighter. “That was a long time ago.”
Emette chuckles. “Guess he finally hit the gym.”
My chest tightens and I glance toward the front again. Damien is talking to the hostess now, probably picking up a takeout order. He looks calm, focused, and unbothered. Like the kind of man who’s perfectly comfortable in his own skin.
Which makes Emette’s comment feel even uglier.
“People change,” I say quietly.
“Sure,” Emette replies but the dismissive tone tells me exactly what he thinks about that.
Damien finishes at the counter and turns toward the door. For a moment it looks like he might glance over here again. But he doesn’t. He just walks out. And I can’t explain why watching him leave makes something in my chest feel strangely hollow.
Across the table, Emette wipes his mouth with his napkin. “You ready to go?”
I look down at my half-finished pasta. “Already?”
“I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.” Of course he does.
I nod. “Okay.”
The waitress brings the check a few minutes later. Emette grabs it before I can even reach for my purse.
“I got it,” he says.
“Thanks.”
Outside, the night air is cool against my skin. Streetlights cast soft golden pools across the parking lot. For a moment we stand there in silence.
Emette checks his phone again. “I should head home,” he says.
“Already?”
“Yeah.”
He leans down and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. Not my lips, my cheek.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, already walking toward his truck.
I stand there watching him drive away and the parking lot grows quiet again. Across the street, a familiar black pickup pulls out of the Magnolia Room lot and turns onto Main.
Damien.
He probably doesn’t even realize I’m still standing here.
But something about that small, ordinary moment makes a strange thought drift through my mind.
Earlier today ... when he took that cupcake from my hand.
The way his fingers brushed mine. The way he smiled, soft and genuine. Like I was the best part of his day.
I shake my head quickly. That’s simply ridiculous.
Damien is just a friend and I have a boyfriend.
Still... As I climb into my car and start the engine, one quiet question lingers in the back of my mind. Why does it feel like Damien Grey sees me more clearly in five minutes ... than Emette has in five years?