Juno:I know.
Of course she did.
I set the phone down and went to find something to wear.
I had a date tonight. With someone who wanted to know about my day.
Some things were worth being nervous about.
Chapter ten
Adrian
Iarrived fourteen minutes early.
The restaurant was six blocks from my hotel. I could have walked. Instead, I sat in my rental car for eight of those fourteen minutes, watching condensation crawl down the inside of the windshield, while wondering when I’d become the kind of person who showed up early to things.
The Thai place was called Siam Palace, though the “P” had fallen off the sign and nobody had bothered to fix it. The awning sagged, and decades of cooking oil had fogged the windows. A handwritten sign taped to the door read: CASH ONLY. NO EXCEPTIONS. NO ARGUING.
I loved it immediately.
Inside, the decor was what I’d call aggressive authenticity—mismatched chairs, plastic tablecloths printed with faded roses, and a small altar in the corner with incense burning in front of a golden Buddha. The woman at the register looked up when I walked in, assessed me with a single glance, and pointed to a booth in the back.
“You’re meeting the hockey boy?”
I blinked. “How did you—”
“He called ahead. Said look for tall, serious, probably frowning. Told me to seat you facing the door because you’d want to see the whole room.” She shrugged. “He tips well.”
I sat where she pointed. She was right—I did want to see the whole room.
This is a date, I reminded myself. An actual date. With a person you’ve already slept with. Stop acting like you’ve never done this before.
It was an accurate thought, but I hadn’t done it in years. Theo and I fell into each other sideways—documentary subject to something more, with no clear line between before and after. We’d never had a first date. We’d had a first interview, a first kiss during editing, and a first morning where I woke up in his bed.
This was different. It was deliberate. Pickle texted me an address and a time, adding:Wear something that can survive Pad Thai sauce. I’m a messy eater. Fair warning.
The door opened at 7:02.
Pickle slid into the booth across from me, shrugging off his jacket. “I knew you’d be early. You have early energy. Very responsible.”
“I was not early. I was on time.”
“The menu’s already warm from your hands.”
I looked down. He was right. I’d been holding it since I sat down.
“Stalker math,” Pickle said cheerfully. “Menu temperature plus condensation patterns on your water glass. I’d estimate…” He squinted at me. “Six or seven minutes?”
“That’s not real math.”
“It’s absolutely real math. It’s a science. I’m a pioneer. The Galileo of restaurant-based surveillance.”
The woman from the register appeared with two waters and a basket of prawn crackers neither of us ordered. She set them down without comment and disappeared.
“Mrs. Prasert loves me,” Pickle explained, already reaching for a cracker. “I helped her grandson with a school project last year. He had to interview someone about their job, and none of the other Storm guys would do it, so I showed up in his classroom in full gear. Skates and everything. Nearly broke my ankle on the tile floor, but the kid got an A.”
I tried to imagine it—Pickle in an elementary school classroom, helmet on, stick in hand, probably terrifying half the children and delighting the other half.
