I think about Ivy's warnings. Lennox's concerns. Two years of cruelty that can't be erased by a few good dates and some poetry.
But I also think about his hand in mine on the ice. His vulnerability with the journal. The way he kisses me like I'm precious. The fact that he's trying, really trying, to be better.
"Maybe," I say finally. "If you keep being honest. If you keep showing up. If you prove that this version of you is real and not just a performance."
"How do I prove that?"
"I don't know. But you've got two more dates to figure it out."
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. Right here in this cheap sandwich shop with students and staff around us. Making it public. Making it real.
"I'll figure it out," he promises.
And despite everything, despite all my doubts and fears and the voice in my head that sounds like Ivy warning me to be careful, I believe him.
We spend the rest of the afternoon walking around campus, talking about everything and nothing. He tells me about growing up with the weight of the Thornhill name. I tell him about my sister's medical issues and why every dollar matters.
It's easy. Comfortable. Like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
When he drops me off at my dorm that evening, he kisses me goodbye, soft and sweet and full of promise.
"Two more dates," he says against my lips.
"Two more chances," I correct.
"I won't waste them."
I believe him. God help me, I actually believe him.
Chapter 10
Sebastian
The fancy dinneris Wednesday night. Valentine's Eve. The penultimate date before the gala on Thursday.
I've been planning it for days, and I'm still convinced I'm going to mess it up.
"You're overthinking this," Marcus says Tuesday night when I show him the reservation I made. "It's just dinner."
"It's not just dinner. It's the second-to-last chance I have to prove I'm not going to revert to being an asshole the second the contract ends." I fight my case, not sure if its with him or myself.
"Then don't be an asshole. Problem solved." He jokes.
"You're not helpful."
"I'm incredibly helpful. You're just anxious." He looks at the restaurant name. "Marcello's? That's a good choice. Fancy but not aggressively pretentious."
"That's what I was going for."
"And you're picking her up? Taking her shopping first for something to wear?" He goes through the checklist, I’ve been repeating to myself for a few days now.
I nod. That was the hardest conversation. Asking Isla if she'd let me buy her a dress for dinner. She'd resisted, of course shehad, until I pointed out that fancy restaurants have dress codes and I wanted her to feel comfortable.
She'd finally agreed on the condition that I stay under two hundred dollars and she gets to pick what she likes, not what I think she should wear.
Fair terms.
"I'm terrified I'm going to fuck this up," I admit.
