Rika laughs, and the sound does dangerous things to my insides. "You're perfect."
The word hangs in the air between us for a beat too long, and she clears her throat.
"I mean," she adds quickly, "your outfit is perfect. For dinner. At the Gnome."
"Right." I grin, unable to help myself. "You just can't admit how dazzling I am."
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling as she grabs her purse from the entry table. "Let's go before I turn into a gremlin. I'm famished."
"A gremlin?" I step back like I'm making room for something sharp-toothed. "Do I need to bring snacks? Or holy water?"
"Snacks," she says promptly. "Definitely snacks."
I offer her my arm, and after a moment's hesitation, she takes it. The warmth of her hand on my forearm sends electricity shooting through my nervous system.
We walk to my SUV in comfortable silence, the cool evening air raising goosebumps on my arms. When I open the passenger door for her, she pauses, looking up at me with those clear, bright-blue eyes.
"Thank you," she says softly. "It's nice going out. I've been going crazy with the house all to myself."
"It's my pleasure," I say honestly. "I'm glad you asked."
Her smile turns shy, and something in my stomach that has nothing to do with hunger churns. The drive to the Wandering Gnome is filled with easy conversation. Rika tells me about a difficult client meeting, and I tell her about the latest incident at the mommy-and-me yoga class.
"Please tell me there was glitter," she says, eyes bright.
"There was." I keep my hands on the wheel like I'm not reliving the trauma. "There was also a toddler who tried to bite my shoe like it owed him money."
Rika laughs, delighted. "So you're saying you survived."
"Barely," I say. "I had to offer him a cookie for him to stop."
"If you die in the line of duty, I'll make sure there's a plaque," she says solemnly. "Here lies Noah Mercer. He died as he lived: covered in glitter and cookie crumbs."
I chuckle and wipe an invisible crumb from my lap. "That's disturbingly accurate."
"Stop," she says, still laughing. "You're going to make me snort."
"That's what I'm here for," I say before I can stop myself.
By the time we pull into the restaurant's parking lot, the nervous energy has settled into something warmer. More comfortable.
The Wandering Gnome is packed, like every Saturday night, filled with the warm buzz of conversation and clinking glasses. Candles flicker in amber glass holders, casting dancing shadows across the exposed wooden beams overhead. The scent of roasted garlic and fresh bread mingles with the mulled cider Mathilda, the gnome proprietor, is famous for.
We're sitting across from each other in a cozy corner booth, and I'm trying not to stare at Rika across the table, but it's a losing battle.
She looks absolutely devastating. Her wings are relaxed, shimmering faintly behind her, and when she laughs at something I just said, her whole face lights up in a way that makes my chest feel too tight.
I'm so screwed.
I'm trying very hard to focus on my braised short ribs instead of the way the candlelight catches in her hair. I'm failing spectacularly.
Rika takes a sip of wine, her eyes sparkling with amusement as I tell her about my tea party tradition with the Jarvis children.
"So you really wore a tutu and a feather boa?" she asks.
"And a tiara," I confirm solemnly. "The whole ensemble."
"I need you to know," she says, leaning in a little, "that this information makes you at least thirty percent more dangerous."
