Maybe another night, when I’m not here with some serial killer who’s maybe a little worse than me. Still, I let my gaze linger, curious about the options.
I don’t need steak tonight.
I just need a fucking steakknifefor Larkin.
The waitress comes back while I’m still deciding how I’d like to kill him, and with Larkin apparently pleased to just watch me seethe. When she gives us our drinks, Larkin flashes her a winning smile, and I can see her falter under the brilliance of his charm, just a little. With a quick, guilty glance at me, she sets down my iced tea in front of me.
“The bartender is bringing your drink. I’m, uh, not old enough,” she admits. Her eyes dip to his throat, where the winding lines of tattoos crawl upwards from his hoodie, like they do at his wrists. My curiosity isbeggingto see what all he has inked on his skin, but I’d rather eat my tongue than ask. “But if you know what you want to eat, I can take your orders.”
“Absolutely. And I’m sorry we took so long.” His charm is nearly blinding, and he lists off his order, a steak of course, without looking back down at the menu. When he’s done, I open my mouth, ready to order my simple sandwich just to be done with this, but Larkin keeps going. “And she’ll have the filet. Medium. With”—he looks at me, studying my face—“the bourbon glaze. Mashed potatoes for her side? Yeah.” He’s not really asking.
“What salad dressing?” the girl asks, and she doesn’t bother to even look in my direction. But Larkin does, one brow raised, apparently inviting me to answer.
For my part, I’m stunned. How did he know? How could he predict what I wanted, down to the bourbon glaze? My fingers tap against my glass as I look at him, nonplussed, until a foot catches my ankle, pulling a surprised little gasp from my throat.
“Honey mustard,” I breathe quickly, barely stopping to think. “And, um, no cucumbers.” I suppose if I’m doing this, I might as well do it right. The waitress nods and walks away, stopping by another table when they snag her attention.
“Why did you order for me?” I demand, jerking my leg back. Without the menu in my hand, I’m reduced to tapping my fingers against the dark green surface of the table in frustration. Larkin just grins, fueling my irritation.God,I want to wipe that look off his face.
“Did I do good?” he hums. He’s unperturbed by my attitude, but I suppose it’s par for the course when he’s kidnapped me for a fucking date I never signed up for. “Tell me I did good.”
I willnotbe saying that. Instead, I shake my head, arms crossed, and glare at him. “I don’t want to be here. So, I’m not giving you shit.” Hediddo good, somehow, and that’s the problem.
But how did heknow?
His shit-eating grin never falters, and even as he spreads butter on a piece of fresh brown bread, his gaze remains fixed on me. When his foot brushes mine under the table again, I snarl softly and kick him back. Whatever reaction I’m hoping for, he doesn’t give it to me. Larkin doesn’t yelp or gasp or hiss. He doesn’t pull his leg away or say something about how I need to watch myself. Instead, he just uses his longer legs to trap one of mine between his before jerking me off balance again so my ass is on the edge of the bench.
I have to grab for the table, my fingers scrabbling against the smooth material as I shove backward to stay upright. My glare levels at Larkin, who just looks at me like there’s nothing in the world going on out of the ordinary.
“So you were born on Whidbey Island,” Larkin muses, and my attention is suddenly dragged to his face at the statement.
“How did you?—?”
“And you killed your mother when you were twelve. Not very nice of you.” He pauses long enough to get his drink from the bartender, that winning grin on his face and a twenty in his hand he slips to the man as a tip. The bartender gives his thanks andleaves, then Larkin sips at the drink, nose wrinkled a little in a sneer, before he takes another drink.
“Your mother raised horses. Your father was an accountant. He killed himself. That’s what the report says, but I’ve been wondering.Didhe kill himself, or did you get lucky and figure out how to stage the scene so they’d never think differently?”
I’m cold.
I’m so cold that I shiver, and I finally glance out the window to the dark parking lot and the cars there, streetlights on and shining against the tinted glass.
For a moment, I don’t answer. I’m too busy with the cold, with the trembling, with the memories of that night. I’ve done such a good job becoming someone different, becomingTova,that to hear someone speak so frankly to me about back then is different.
It’s unexpected, to say the least.
“I didn’t kill my dad,” I breathe, any resentment gone from my soft voice. “My dad was a good person. He tried. He—” My voice wavers. How do I tell someone that I’d hoped we could just have a new life together? That I hoped without Mom in the way, Dad would love me without fear of retribution from Mom in her deteriorating state?
The simple answer?I don’t.
The silence between us is uncomfortable, especially with the way Larkin just watches me in an unnervingly intense way. Finally, I sit back, my mouth open, but our over-eager waitress takes that moment to pop back in to make sure Larkin got his drink and to offer us more bread.
Which, in all actuality, is probably a good thing.
I need the distraction from wanting to stab him, and bread is the universe’s miracle cure.
Dinner isn’t quiet, exactly. It’s filled with Larkin’s random questions and me trying to remember that I can’t stab him with my steak knife.
But I’m pretty sure he knows exactly what I’m thinking, because every time I go to cut my steak or pick it up, he tilts his head and gives me that too-sweet smile I could never trust.
