I smile. “You don’t have to be.”
She looks at me. “You are.”
I don’t deny it. Denial is pointless between us. “Not about you.”
“Then what?”
I take her hand. “About them.”
She glances around. There’s no crowd, just a few people passing. Still, she understands. Of course she does. She’s always understood me better than I wanted. The table is small. Intimate. A candle in the center, glassware that looks like it could shatter if you breathe wrong. The kind of place I’m used to but Adaline isn’t. She picks up the menu and reads it like a test she doesn’t understand.
“This is fancy,” she says, low. She has no idea truly how fancy this place is. It takes years to get a reservation, well only if you’re not a Kingston.
“Is that a complaint?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Just an observation.”
“Keep observing,” I reply, and the corner of her mouth lifts.
The waiter comes. I order wine before he can ask. When he turns to her, I speak again, calmly.
“She’ll have the lamb.”
Adaline’s gaze snaps to me, eyebrow raised.
“Excuse me?” she says.
“Trust me,” I say.
She looks like she wants to argue out of principle, but then she doesn’t. She nods. “Fine. Lamb.”
“The salmon for me, please.”
The waiter nods and leaves, and I have to hide my smirk knowing that I got my way with this little brat. It’s usually a rare occurrence.
“You’re bold,” she says.
“I’m right,” I say.
She huffs a laugh. “Same difference.”
I lean forward and kiss her cheek, and we soon settle into conversation. It never gets boring, hearing her ramble or her listening to me with the everlasting patience she has. We talk about how I desperately want her to sell her motorcycle because of the safety risks, and her telling me she would rather die before she does. She talks about school, about how everything feels like it’s ending and beginning at the same time. I listen, watching her hands when she speaks. She has a habit of fidgeting with her rings when she’s thinking, and I love it. I love listening to her.
“You’ve been quiet,” she says after a while.
“I’m listening, baby.”
“You always listen,” she replies.
I meet her gaze. “I love listening to you.”
She looks away first, trying to hide her smile. Even now, we’ve seen every nook and cranny, and she still gets shy when it comesto feelings. It makes my stomach tighten with satisfaction I don’t bother hiding. The wine arrives. I pour for her before myself and watch when she takes her first sip. Her beautiful face contorts into a grimace, and I can’t hold back my laughter.
“It tastes like shit.” She huffs.
“You have the palate of a child.”
“Might be true, considering I finished the food you cooked for me.”
