Willow
THREE
By the time my shift ends, my feet hurt, my neck is tight, and I smell of coffee, fryer grease, and syrup.
So, naturally, this is when Xander decides he’s serious about taking me to dinner.
I stand behind the counter counting tips while Lara wipes down the pie case and watches me with the kind of interest that means I’m about to have a terrible time.
“You’re really going?” she asks.
I shove a few bills into my apron pocket. “I haven’t decided.”
“You’ve been off the clock for six minutes, and you’re still standing here arguing with yourself. That sounds pretty decided to me.”
I glare at her. “I’m not changing clothes.”
Lara looks me over. “And?”
I look down at myself, too. Jeans. Boots.
Faded diner tee under a zip-up hoodie I haven’t even bothered taking off yet.
My hair is still up in the messy knot I threw it into this morning, and I’m pretty sure there’s a smear of flour or powdered sugar or some other kitchen-adjacent humiliation on one hip.
“And,” I say, “I look like I just crawled out of a twelve-hour shift serving coffee and sarcasm.”
“You look fine.”
“That’s diner code for tragic.”
Lara snorts. “Honey, if that man asked you out after you spilled breakfast on him while half the town watched, I think he can survive a dirty T-shirt.”
That’s not bad logic.
It doesn’t help that he hasn’t moved since he said he’d sit there. I have no idea how many coffees he’s had, all for… me? It’s weird.
“Go on,” Lara pushes me. “Go have fun with the mysterious rockstar.”
“Don’t make this weird.”
“I don’t have to. He’s already doing all the work.”
“What do you mean, ‘rockstar’?”
She doesn’t get a chance to answer.
Xander walks toward the counter without looking anywhere but at me.
I notice everything about him. I can’t help it.
The way he moves like he never rushes for anyone. The way his gaze drops over me once, intense, taking in the jeans, the tee, the hoodie, the hair that has absolutely given up on being neat.
My stomach flips in a deeply unhelpful manner.
“I’m not finished yet,” I say, because I need to recover some ground.
He glances at the clock over the pie fridge. “You finished seven minutes ago.”
“Well, I… had some paperwork to, uh, finish off…”
His eyes stay on me. “You’re wearing what you worked in?”
I cross my arms. “That a problem?”
“No.” There’s a beat. Then, rougher around the edges in a way I absolutely don’t need to hear, “You look hot.”
I stare at him.
Lara makes a tiny choking sound that I will choose to interpret as a cough if she values our friendship.
I blink once. “I look like I smell like hash browns.”
“You do.” His gaze drifts over me again, unhurried. “Still hot.”
My cheeks warm. “Your standards are concerning.”
“They’re specific.”
That’s somehow worse.
I grab my bag from under the counter before this gets any more humiliating. “I’m only going because I’m hungry.”
Xander takes one step back, making room for me to come around the counter. “You say that like I care what excuse you use.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Lara leans one hip against the pie case, smiling like this is better than television. “Have fun, kids.”
I point at her as I pass. “You’re dead to me.”
“Call me tomorrow,” she sings after me. “Or tonight, if he turns out to be secretly married.”
Xander holds the diner door open for me.
The evening is cool enough to feel good after the heat inside.
My skin still holds the day, the rush of tables and hot plates and too much movement, and the sudden quiet outside makes me feel oddly aware of everything.
My ponytail brushing my neck, the ache in my lower back, the fact that Xander is right beside me and very much real.
His car is parked at the curb, black and expensive and exactly what I expect a man like him to drive.
He opens the passenger door. I stop and look at him. “You know I can get in a car by myself.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you standing there like I’m a duchess in a period drama?”
His hand stays on the door. “Get in, Willow.”
There it is again.
That voice. That infuriating way he turns everything into an order without ever raising it.
I slide into the seat because arguing on the sidewalk feels like giving the town free entertainment. He closes the door, walks around the front of the car, and gets in beside me.
The inside smells like leather and cedar and him.
That last part is the problem.
He pulls away from the curb, one hand loose on the wheel, and for a minute I watch the town pass through the window in silence. The square is mostly dark now except for the bookstore café and the lights at Bennett’s.
“You always this suspicious?” he asks.
I look over at him. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Experience.”
He glances at me briefly, then back at the road. “That answer covers a lot.”
“That’s because I’m efficient.”
His thumb taps once against the steering wheel. “You don’t trust easy things.”
I laugh softly. “I don’t trust men who decide I’m going to dinner with them before I’ve agreed.”
“You came.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You keep saying that.”
“It keeps being true.”
He pulls into the gravel lot outside The Lamb and kills the engine.
I look at the restaurant, all warm golden windows and expensive atmosphere, and sigh. “This feels like overkill.”
“It’s dinner.”
“This is anniversary dinner. Proposal dinner. ‘I’m sorry I committed tax fraud’ dinner.”
He turns toward me. “You narrate everything like this?”
“Only when I’m under stress.”
“You’re stressed?”
“I’m at a restaurant where the butter has aspirations.”
That almost gets a smile out of him.
Almost.
He gets out, comes around, and opens my door again, because apparently, this man is physically incapable of letting me touch a handle myself. I climb out before he can offer his hand.
Inside, the host’s whole expression changes the second he sees Xander.
Recognition.
That tiny brightening people do when they know someone’s name before it’s offered.
“Mr. Harlow,” the host says, and he leads us toward a corner booth with entirely too much eagerness.
I’m aware of the room in pieces as we walk. Dark wood. Soft lighting. Couples leaning toward each other over wine glasses. Low music. The smell of butter and garlic and money.
I’m also aware of my clothes all over again.
Jeans. Tee. Boots that are still a little dusty from the diner parking lot. Hoodie tied around my waist now because the restaurant is warm and I don’t know what to do with my hands.
Women in places like this always seem to know how to sit. How to angle themselves. How to look effortless while clearly having put in effort.
I know how to carry six plates and dodge a toddler with a jelly packet.
Different skill set.
Xander waits until I slide into the booth before he sits across from me. His gaze lands on the hoodie tied around my waist, then moves back up to my face.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re thinking too hard.”
“I’m in a place where the napkins are cloth. It’s a natural reaction.”
“You’re fine.”
“Easy for you to say.”
His eyes stay on me. “You look better in this than most women do dressed up.”
I roll my eyes because I have to do something. “That line probably works on people who were dropped on their heads.”
“It’s not a line.”
“Worse.”
Martha Callahan appears at the table before I can decide whether to be more annoyed or more flustered.
“Well,” she says. “This is interesting. Good to see you, Willow.”
I roll my eyes. “Please don’t start.”
Martha’s mouth twitches. “I haven’t started anything.”
“That’s what people say when they absolutely have.”
She ignores me and turns to Xander instead. “And good to see you back in one piece, too.”
“Likewise,” he says, calm as ever.
I look between them. “Why does that sound like there’s history there?”
Martha lifts one shoulder. “This town’s not that big, sweetheart. People know people.”
That answer is maddeningly vague, which means she definitely knows more than she’s saying and is enjoying every second of not saying it.
“Drinks?” she asks.
“Water,” I say.
“Red,” Xander says at the same time.
I close my eyes for one brief second. “Water, please.”
“You’ll have both,” Xander says.
I look at him. “You do realize I’m capable of deciding what goes in my own body.”
“I know.”
“Then stop ordering me around.”
His gaze settles on me, cool and level and too intent. “You’re tired, hungry, and wound tight enough to bite someone. Wine will help.”
Martha makes a sound that’s suspiciously close to a laugh.
I point at her. “You’re a professional. Act like it.”
“Mmhmm,” she says, writing down the order. “I’ll bring bread, too. For everyone’s safety.”
She leaves before I can throw a napkin at her.
I sink back into the booth. “I cannot believe this is my life.”
Xander leans against the seat like none of this rattles him even a little. “You’ll survive.”
“That remains to be seen.”
There’s a pause while I glare at the candle between us, mostly because it feels safer than looking directly at him for too long.
Martha returns with water, wine, and a bread basket that smells so good I immediately need it.
She pours the wine before I can stop her and gives me one quick look that says she will absolutely be speaking to me about this later. Then, she disappears again.
I pick up the wine glass and take a sip.
It’s annoyingly good. Amazing, even.
Xander watches me as he swirls the wine in his own glass. “You hate it less than you want to.”
“I hate that you’re pleased with yourself.”
His expression doesn’t really change, but there’s a quiet sort of satisfaction there, all the same. “You’ll live.”
I tear off a piece of bread. “You keep saying that like I’m one dramatic statement away from collapse.”
“You are.”
I use the bread as a shield while I look at the menu, and that’s when I nearly choke.
“This is a ridiculous amount of money for chicken,” I say.
“If you order the chicken, that’s between you and God.”
I look up. “Do you ever hear yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And somehow you still continue.”
He takes a sip of wine. “Usually.”