Chapter 17 #2
“I instigated this shit storm. I’ll own it, and I’ll do my part—but not tonight. We’ve got reservations, and we’re already late.”
I jolted at his declaration, my hand tightening around his reflexively as I looked up at him.
Reservations?
Having felt my squeeze, he glanced over at me, caught my eye, and winked.
Holy hell.
It was stupid—so totally stupid—but that one little word made me trip and fall a little harder for the man. He gave me his last name, but a reservation felt like so much more.
He wasn’t just taking me to dinner.
He was taking me to dinner.
And now I really wanted to know where we were going.
I shifted my gaze across the table, silently praying Nighthawk wouldn’t deny him. Us.
“You know we’re not gonna let you shoulder this burden like that. No one’s pointin’ fingers. Except for me.” He pointed toward the door as he continued, “Go on, get out of here. Touch base tomorrow.”
The next thing I knew, I was being tugged toward the exit.
I took one last look at Nighthawk, hoping to express my silent gratitude.
My eyes caught his and he dipped his chin.
With a smile and a wave, I hurried after my husband.
The Keep was a fine dining restaurant built like a mansion. It was situated by a golf course, and it had the most beautiful view of the mountains. We got a table next to a window, and when the hostess sat a menu in front of me, I felt as confused as I was giddy.
This was not the kind of place someone like me would frequent on a regular basis. An establishment where the table was covered in linen, and a place setting included a wine glass and a water glass. The cheapest entrée they had was a wagyu burger—and it was twenty-five dollars.
You could get a double with bacon at Route 66 for fourteen.
But more than my awe at the fact that Pistol had brought me to such a fancy place, I was trying to figure out how this table, with that view, and the man across from me in his Wild Stallions kutte made sense.
I set down my menu and leaned across the table, speaking in a hushed voice as I said, “I’m trying to piece this all together. If this is how you normally eat, I’m sorry I fed you bacon grilled cheese the other night.”
His focus still aimed at his menu, he replied, “I’ve never been here before.”
“You haven’t?” I asked, straightening in my seat.
He shook his head once. “Buddy of mine on the inside used to talk about comin’ here.
He’d joke about it on nights when the slop was particularly bad—pretend he was eatin’ filet mignon.
On my way out, he told me to make sure I made it here at least once.
” Pistol paused long enough to look over at me before he concluded, “So, here I am.”
There was something about that I liked.
I wasn’t sure if it was proof he was a man of his word, but I thought it said something about how he valued his friendships.
Whether or not it held any significance he chose tonight to try out the restaurant, I couldn’t say—but it made me feel special anyway.
Our server came over to fill our water glasses and take our drink orders. Pistol asked her to suggest a bottle of wine, and a few minutes later, we each had a glass of something red and smooth.
He ordered the rack of lamb for dinner.
I chose the duck.
When in Rome, and all that.
Then we were alone, with our wine and the rest of the night before us.
“This friend of yours, what’s his name?”
“Alec.”
“Sounds like you might have been close.”
“He was my cellmate.”
I hummed, giving voice to my enlightenment. “Must be strange…getting out and moving on but leaving friends behind. Will you visit? Tell him about tonight?”
“No,” he replied with a decisive shake of his head. “Never goin’ back to that hell hole.”
“Right. Guess that makes sense,” I murmured, not sure what else to say.
“Wouldn’t turn down his call, though,” he spoke into his glass of wine.
I admired him for a moment.
It wasn’t always easy to see, but Riley Wells had soft spots.
I wanted to find them.
All of them.
It wasn’t hard to pinpoint his most obvious one, so I started there.
“Tell me about Reaper,” I suggested, twisting my wine glass by the stem.
He set his glass aside, leaned back in his chair, and rested a hand on his jean clad knee.
“What about her?”
“How old is she? When did you get her? And what language are you speaking when you talk to her?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“She’s seven. I’ve had her since she was a puppy. Saw a sign on the side of the road advertising a litter. I’d been wanting a dog for a while, but the timing never seemed right. Not until that day. I’d just closed on my house, which meant I had space, so I called the number and dropped by.
“She had eight brothers and sisters. I knelt down in the middle of all of them, and she leapt right at me. Fought anyone who tried to steal my attention, too.” He freed a soft chuckle, like the memory was playing out in real time right before his eyes.
“She was the only one predominantly black, and I liked that—so I made her mine. Named her Reaper. Taught her German. And the rest is history.”
“Oh. German. German Shepherd. Duh,” I teased, rolling my eyes at myself. “Maybe I should learn some.”
“Not a bad idea.”
His comment made me bite my lip.
He kept doing that—poking at the real possibility of us. Of longevity. And as badly as I wanted to let myself go there with him, I didn’t trust it. Not any of it. Not him. Not me.
History was a bitch, and she had my number.
I pushed aside my wine glass, leaned against my forearms atop the table, and flat out asked, “So, are we really going to do this?”
He mimicked my stance; his right forearm ended up in front of his left, his frame too big for the size of our table.
“You’re sittin’ across from me, aren’t you?”
“I also have your ring on my finger, and we both know that hasn’t meant much,” I challenged.
Whatever lighthearted expression he had a second ago was replaced with a glower. It wasn’t exactly dark and broody, but I knew whatever he said next I would take seriously.
“For fuck’s sake, you act like there’s no margin of error here.”
“Margin of error? Is that what Cherry was?”
His glower intensified.
“You’re gonna have to let that one go.”
I leaned closer, now feeling the opposite of lighthearted myself.
“I wish that was our only issue. You’re never home. We barely speak. I don’t know a ton about marriage, but I know it requires you to be around. Instead, you’re just the guy calling all the shots. And I’m supposed to be—I don’t even know! Am I a roommate? Am I a fuck buddy? Or—”
“This isn’t Leave it to Beaver.”
“I don’t even know what that means!” I argued.
“It means I’m more sinner than saint, and whatever this is between us came at a very inconvenient time.
But I don’t have to be sittin’ here across from you.
I don’t have to play nice. Hell, I didn’t even have to marry you to keep you quiet—but those blue eyes and fuckin’ red lips make me want to stop second guessing every impulsive move I made five days ago just to see where this goes.
“But we won’t get the hell out of the parkin’ lot if you don’t give it a chance, be on this date, and stop doubting my motives. I’m not playin’ games with you, angel. So, you tell me. How’s this gonna go?”
My pulse was racing, and my breaths were coming fast and shallow as I stared into his dark green eyes. I wasn’t afraid or intimidated. On the contrary, I was on the verge of being aroused.
He hadn’t declared his love for me. He didn’t even really confirm what he thought we were doing—but he did want to explore it. That he made abundantly clear.
‘I’m not playin’ games with you, angel.’
I no longer cared why he called me that.
I just didn’t want him to stop.
Sensing his question was more of a rhetorical challenge than a statement requiring an answer, I decided to follow his lead and get on with our date.
“Why don’t you drink coffee?” I inquired.
He stared at me for a long time, like he needed a few seconds to register what I was doing, and then I saw it as his shoulders relaxed.
“Tastes like dirt.”
This made me smile.
“Okay. I can see why you might think that if you drank it black. But a little cream or sugar does wonders.”
“Yeah. Sure does. Makes the dirt taste watered down and sweet.”