I spin her and press her back to my front, facing the wall of windows so she can see our reflection together, reminding her she’s safe in my arms no matter what.
“I didn’t buy this dress for you, sweetheart. I bought it so he could see you wear it with confidence. I fucking hope he’s watching.”
She inhales. Her fingers tremble as she clutches my arms. In the window’s reflection, I spot her biting her bottom lip and even notice her cheeks flush.
“Are you sure we should leave him?” she asks, giving Odin some pets before we head out.
“We’re only going to be gone a couple hours.”
“I know, but we were gone all day,” she says with a pout.
Her justification makes me frown. It’s not like her to want to stay home when we have reservations at a nice restaurant. She needs this more than I realized.
“We gotta take him to the dog park. He needs more attention.”
I laugh. That dog is exhausted from all the attention she gives him. “Think of how happy he’ll be when you bring him home a doggie bag tonight?”
“Okay.” She sighs.
She nods, more confident this time. Kelly turns toward the door but freezes when she notices the new artwork I’ve hung on the wall. She didn’t see it when she walked in earlier because it was behind her.
“Is that . . . is that what I think it is?” Framed on a canvas is the sheet our bodies painted the night she came over. That night was when things started to change between us and we became stronger, like metal.
“Wait, what did you scribble in the corner?” She squints to read the words. “My Obsession.”
“Every piece of art needs a name.”
She spins and threads her fingers behind my neck, dragging me down and teasing me with her lips in ways that have me regretting ever thinking we should go out to dinner. I could have had her spread out on my countertop and made a whole fucking meal.
On the way over, I made a rule:No talking about the stalker.No fear. No looking over our shoulders. Our attention is on each other. Jason can watch all he fucking wants from the sidelines—I’ll even give him a show, but he’s not going to interfere. Not tonight.
When we arrive at the restaurant, we’re seated at our table and presented with two hand-bound leather menus outlining the chef’s curated selections, and a third with the wine program. Tonight’s special is recited like poetry, with great detail and plenty of lofty metaphors—a rosemary-kissed lamb loin with truffle pomme puree, deceptively simple, yet prepared with uncompromising rigor. Okay.
She listens. I don’t.
My focus is solely on her tonight.
The server leaves us with a polite nod, and we relax into our secluded spot. The tables draped in white linens are spacedfar enough apart, lowering the volume of patrons to a hum that fades into the background. It gives the illusion of intimacy in a very public place. This restaurant is the type that doesn’t take walk-ins, and is packed night after night, and you either plan far in advance or you know somebody who can get you in. Being the head chef’s tattoo artist has its perks.
The candlelit table illuminates her face in a warm glow as we peruse the offerings. I spend more time watching her than I do reading about the food. Kelly studies her options, considering each and every item before she makes a decision. She leaves much up to fate, but never when it comes to food.The other things she puts in her mouth, however . . .
“What are you thinking?” she asks, still scanning the page.
A half smile curls on my lips. “The things I’m thinking would make you blush.”
Her eyes find mine, and she lowers her menu, nailing me with a chastising expression. “I’m talking about food.”
“So am I,” I say, returning to my menu with feigned interest.
Once we’ve made our selections, we close the leather books and place them on the table, and our server reappears with impeccable timing.
Kelly settles on the seared scallops with wild mushroom risotto.
“Excellent choice.” The server nods and turns to me.
“I’ll do the same,” I say, adding on a bottle of Chablis.
With a polite nod and a warm smile, the server disappears with the leather menus.
