Fantastic timing.
I should keep walking.
"You heading to dinner?"
She blinks. "What?"
"Dinner." I nod toward Millie's. "I'm new. Moved in today. Don't really want to eat alone."
Her eyes narrow. Assessing. "Do I know you?"
"No." I hold out my hand. "Grayson. Just moved into the apartment above the bookstore."
She looks at my hand for a beat, then shakes it. Her grip is firm, no-nonsense. "The tattoo artist." Not a question. Small towns. "Levi mentioned someone was moving in."
"That's me." I shove my hands in my pockets. This might be a terrible idea. She looks like she'd rather fight me than have dinner with me. "Look, if you're not interested, no problem. Just thought I'd ask."
Long pause. She's studying me like I might be a serial killer.
Fair.
Then something in her face shifts. Walls coming down just a crack.
"You know what? Sure." She locks the door with a decisive click. "Why not. I don't feel like facing the well-meaning interrogation at my parents' house tonight."
"Bea, right?"
Her entire body tenses. "How do you know my name?"
"Levi mentioned you work here. Said your brother Ben owns the garage." I keep my voice level. "That's all I know."
She watches me. Looking for the lie.
Must not find it, because her shoulders drop slightly. "Okay. But let's be clear—this isn't a date."
"Wasn't planning on it being one."
"This is you not eating alone and me avoiding my parents for a while. That's it."
"Works for me." Even though everything in me is arguing that this should absolutely be a date.
Not helping, biology.
"And if you're expecting life story or why I'm back in town, you're gonna be disappointed."
"I wasn't planning to ask."
That catches her off guard. Her eyes narrow again. "Everyone asks."
"I'm not everyone." I start walking. "Come on. I'm starving, and I haven't had real food in two days."
She falls into step beside me. Close enough that I catch her scent fully now—that cinnamon-apple with winter air wrapping around me, making my mouth water and my cock take notice.
Shit. This is not the time.
I focus very hard on walking and not thinking about how good she smells. Or how the cold's putting color in her cheeks. Or how her defensive posture somehow makes her more attractive instead of less—all that fire and wariness packaged in curves I absolutely should not be noticing.
This is just dinner. Two people. No big deal.
