“You know you can eat whatever you want, right?” he says, eyes glued to my plate. Oh, here we go.
“I know. I love salads.” I stab my fork into the house salad and take a bite, giving him a polite, closed-lipped smile.
“Good. I was just making sure. Sometimes, women play it safe on dates and eat whatever they think men want them to eat.”
“Oh really? And what is it that men want us to eat?”
He throws his hands up. “Most men, not me. I want my dates to eat whatever they want and be happy. That’s what makes good company, you know?” Then, he dips his spoon into his lobster bisque so effortlessly, he might as well be starring in an ad for soup.
With that face, I would buy the soup, if I ate sea creatures that is.
I nod, because, damn it, he’s right. That’s exactly why most of my dates implode. I don’t do fake. I don’t do lies. My Virgo radar spots them a mile away.
Men who think they can bluff their way into my panties? First to get benched. Which is exactly why I’ve been looking forward to this: he actually seems to enjoy my company. Like, beyond last year’s escapade that still makes me blush if I think about it too long.
“So . . . is that what this is? A date?” I ask, because if I don’t drag the hard conversation onto the table now, my brain will obsess about it all night. I overthink the smallest of things—certainly this too. Better to tackle it with overpriced wine as backup.
“It can be a date for twenty-four hours, but that’s all I can give right now, Hailey.” His jaw tightens as if he’s eating jawbreakers.
I take a sip of wine and set the glass down. “Is this when we talk about what we’re doing?”
He nods. I lean in. “Last year, this would have been so out of the realm for me, it isn’t even funny. Not only will we see each other once a year, but I’m ten years older than you, Asher.Thirty-two. That’s ‘prime age to settle down, have kids, be a housewife’ territory.”
He laughs—actually laughs. “Is that what you want? Or just what you think you’re supposed to want because society drilled it into you?” He sips his wine like he didn’t just lob a question I think most people should frame on their walls.
And there it is.
Nobody in my life haseverasked me that.
Everyone just assumed I’d stick to my checklist like gospel. Career, check. Stability, check. Marriage, to be determined.
“It was . . . or I thought it was,” I admit, pushing my plate away and turning to face him fully. “But the last two years have been a clusterfuck.”
He gasps. “Hailey . . . you cuss?”
“Yes.” The giggle that follows comes out louder than intended. A couple people look over, so I mutter an apology and take another sip. “God, I’m so loud.”
He shakes his head.
“Don’t apologize for taking up space. Stars are supposed to take the spotlight.” He winks.
Winks.
And my face heats faster than the wine can cool it.
“Oh, I wasn’t apologizing. I was warning you.” I lift my glass. “You’re officially with the loud girl in the red dress.”
“With the prettiest eyes and the glossiest hair, you forgot to add.”
“Asher Hunter, you found words in the year we’ve been apart,” I tease, returning to my crisp wine. There’s nothing Moscato can’t fix.
“I saw things nobody should see, and it put everything into perspective.” His somber words rest between us.
How I wish I didn’t know exactly what he’s referring to. I have seen so much hurt as a trauma nurse, but I can’t imaginehow much he’s witnessed as a member of the Coast Guard. I can’t fathom it, not really.
“That’s actually what’s been going on with me. Without adding too much trauma to this conversation, my job has taken a toll these past two years, and I’m at a crossroads on what to do. But something’s gotta change, or I won’t make it.”
“Don’t say that,” he says with a bite behind his words.
