My fingers tightened around it. “A gift.”
Beth’s grin softened. “Okay. That’s really sweet.”
“It’s not sweet,” I said, and my voice came out more serious than I meant. “It’s … true.”
Natasha’s expression gentled. “You’re really doing it, tonight?”
I nodded.
Beth leaned forward slightly. “What are you going to say?”
My stomach flipped.
“I’m going to tell him I love him,” I said. “And I want to be with him. As a couple. Not whatever this half-thing is.”
Beth’s eyes widened, and for once she didn’t make a joke. “Damn.”
Natasha reached over and squeezed my hand.
I exhaled. “I’m tired of letting fear decide things.”
Beth pointed a finger at me. “Okay. But remember: if he can’t meet you there, that doesn’t make you foolish.”
“I know.”
Did I?
I thought I did.
I showered slowly, and let the water rinse away the last twenty-four hours—the bridge, the panic, the humiliation, the kiss that had ended too soon. I shaved, moisturized, and did my hair the way I used to for events that mattered back when my life was calmer.
The dress slid on like a promise.
I dabbed perfume at my throat and wrists, the scent floral and warm. I put on earrings I’d packed “just in case,” becauseapparently I’d been preparing for this even when I told myself I wasn’t.
When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see someone fragile.
I saw someone ready.
I took a cab to the restaurant early, because I needed a few minutes to breathe in the space before he arrived—or to watch him arrive and read him before we sat down, depending on whether the universe decided to be kind.
The steakhouse was called Ashley River Chophouse—a Charleston name that sounded like history and indulgence, like bourbon and old brick, like something you’d recommend to someone you wanted to impress.
Inside, the lighting was low, the air cool, the kind of place where the servers moved like they belonged to the building. Leather booths. White tablecloths. Soft jazz that didn’t demand attention.
I gave my name to the hostess, and she smiled politely as she led me toward a table in a quieter corner.
And then I saw him.
Wyatt stood when he noticed me, and something in my chest punched hard.
He’d changed since the day before—the tension eased, the hard edges softened. He wore a dark sportcoat over a crisp button-down, sleeves unrolled tonight, watch at his wrist, hair still short but styled like he’d cared. His jaw was clean-shaven, and his eyes?—
His eyes tracked me in a way that made heat bloom low in my stomach.
He looked … romantic.
Not guarded.
