He’d been stuck with me since then anyway, so it was as good a day as any.
That night, we were celebrating one year together, and for once, we were dressing up to go out for some fancy dinner Owen refused to give me any specifics on. All I knew was we were going somewhere in Traverse City. Instantly, I’d guessed Birdie’s,being that it was the nicest restaurant in the city, but he assured me that wasn’t it. I’d tried over the last couple weeks, since he first proposed this idea to me, to pump him for information. Unfortunately, the man was a vault.
“You’re right,” Owen said, approaching me and taking my hand, lifting it to his mouth to press a kiss to my knuckles. “It’s our anniversary, and you are far too sinful in that dress just to take it right back off. We should at least let people see it.”
“And you really should wear a suit more often,” I told him, taking my hand back and smoothing them both down the satin lapels of his jacket. In the matching pants, the exterior seams piped with the same satin, and a crisp white shirt, he was looking particularly delicious. He’d forgone a tie, instead leaving the shirt open at the collar, his chain glinting against his skin—the zero now replaced with my first initial—and I leaned in to press a kiss to the sliver of exposed chest.
“We have to leave. Now,” he said, and I giggled as he tugged me from the room, lifting me off my feet to carry me down the stairs.
About three months after we’d gotten together, Owen had sold his house on Boardman Lake and moved in with me in ABB. I’d never cohabitated with a man who wasn’t my father before, so I could admit I’d been nervous to welcome him into my space.
Naturally, I’d been worried for nothing. Exactly as we’d done everything else, we settled into living together easily. Nine months down the road, it felt like he’d always lived there with me. We converted the spare bedroom on the main floor into an office for him, though he continued to beg me to let him move out to the garage with me.
I shut that suggestion down real fast. A girl still needed her own space.
We made the drive so frequently that the trip from our house to Traverse City passed quickly, mostly with me belting the words to my favorite Taylor Swift album while Owen pretended to be miserable as he silently mouthed them along with me.
Before long, we were pulling up behind Lawless, and I glanced at Owen quizzically.
“What’re we doing here?” I asked, though he ignored me in favor of getting out and coming around to help me out. “I thought you said we were having dinner.”
“We are,” he said, not bothering to elaborate as he slipped his hand into mine and pulled me to the back door.
“Owen!” I protested, attempting to pull him to a stop, a feat I obviously didn’t and could never accomplish.
Still, he didn’t speak as he punched in the code on the security system keypad, and the door buzzed to admit us.
Since it was Saturday night, reasonably, the place should’ve been packed and loud.
It was neither of those things, and as we navigated the dark hallway that led out onto the floor, I was hit by a wave of deja vu. Instantly, I was transported back to the first time I’d come here to meet with him, how seeing it in broad daylight, void of people, had caught me off guard.
My god, it was amazing how far he and I had come in a little over a year.
The distillery survived its first winter and was at capacity day in and day out all last summer. This fall had been steady so far, and we were currently discussing the possibilityof taking our product to market. In addition, all of Owen’s other businesses continued to flourish, and I’d managed to land some marketing partnerships with some national and international brands I loved.
All in all, we were absolutely thriving, and we had a lot to be thankful for.
But the thing I was most thankful for was the man holding my hand, especially as we rounded the corner onto the floor of the club, and the scene unfolded in front of me.
The space typically reserved for the dance floor now held a single round table in its center, a chair on either side, the surface draped with a white cloth and sprinkled with red rose petals. More of them littered the floor, slipping underfoot as Owen led me to the table and pulled out a chair for me. A bottle of sparkling wine sat on ice, and another bottle of red was uncorked and breathing, ready to be poured into goblets and consumed. Candles glittered everywhere, supplementing the low overhead lighting.
Beyond the bucket of bubbly sat a cart, each shelf holding several domed dishes.
“Welcome to dinner,” Owen said, gesturing at the cart. “Can I interest you in an appetizer?”
“You’rewaiting on me?”
Owen pursed his lips then flattened his mouth. “I wait on you all the time.”
“In bed,” I corrected. “Have you ever waited tables a day in your life?”
“Haveyou?” he shot back, and I reclined in my seat. He had a point. “Plus, it’s not that hard. Ezra gave me strict instructions.All I have to do is take the domes off, remove the plates from the trays, and put them on the table. Hardly rocket science.”
“Ezra?” I asked, incredulous. “You made Ezra cook for us?”
“I didn’tmakehim do anything. I asked, and he agreed. I also paid him a healthy sum for his services.”
I shook my head, a light chuckle escaping me. My man was ridiculous.
