His grip tightens slightly on the wheel, and he doesn’t look at me, but I see the faint flush on his cheekbones. The heater knocks loudly and I pretend his blush isn’t adorable.
♥♥♥
Millie’s is packed when we walk in. I see families finishing dinner, couples warming up with soup, groups of skiers clinking mugs. The entire place smells like cinnamon rolls, beef stew, and nostalgia.
Millie sees us first. Or rather, she sees Ethan. Then sees me. Then sees both of us together. She freezes mid-wipe on a table. Her eyebrows fly so high I’m shocked they don’t detach.
“Well, well,” she declares, “if it isn’t the Holiday Bride couple!”
The entire café turns. Like an audience at a tennis match.
Ethan mutters, “For the love of …” under his breath.
But we sit, because Millie personally herds us to a booth like a mother goose guiding ducklings.
“This one’s on the house,” she says, dropping menus. “Town tradition. Newlyweds get free dessert too.”
“We’re not …” I start.
She waves that off. “Don’t ruin my fun, sweetheart.”
Ethan’s jaw flexes. “We’re not newlyweds.”
“You could’ve fooled me,” Millie fires back. “You look cozy.”
I choke on air. Ethan scrubs a hand down his face. We make it through ordering. He has a bison burger and I order chicken pot pie. Then, the locals begin circling with lots of embarrassing questions that we mostly smile through, without really answering.
By the time our food arrives, Ethan looks like a man holding onto sanity by a fraying rope. But something about his discomfort is endearing. It makes him more human. It’s honest … and I feel closer to him. Not physically. Emotionally. Which is worse. Because tonight we’re going back to that bed. The bed I woke up in this morning tangled around him. And I’m not ready for whatever that means.
I poke at my pot pie. “Are you doing okay?”
He huffs. “Didn’t expect so many questions.”
“Small towns,” I remind him gently. “Curiosity is our main currency.”
He relaxes. Just a little. Millie swoops by with refills and a tray of apple crisps “just to see their newlywed glow.”
We both groan. Then it happens.
The table busser reaches to clear the dinner dishes, picking up the used paper napkin in front of Ethan. He snags it back with lightning reflexes.
“I’m keeping that,” he says.
The busser blinks. “Sir, it’s a napkin.”
“It still has life in it.”
She stares. I stare. Everyone at the table behind us stares.
The busser gives up. “Alrighty then.”
She walks away. I turn slowly toward him, trying not to laugh, but failing.
“Ethan … why?”
“It’s a perfectly good napkin,” he says defensively. “Barely used.”
“How much could it cost? A penny?”
