“Today?” she squeaks.
“Today,” I say, unable to hide the grin. “Can’t risk you skipping town.”
Now she has said yes, I won’t let her back out. No chance in hell.
Chapter 8
Emma
By the time Alexloads the last of his tools into his car, the shelves look so beautiful it physically aches. The dark oak settles against the moss-green paint like it has belonged there forever, and for the first time since we bought the shop, the place feels grown-up. Real. Like a proper business rather than two women winging it with spreadsheets and hope. He won’t take payment, of course. I tried. Twice. He just shook his head, smiled in that maddeningly gentle way and carried on clearing up sawdust. I’ll protest again later. And probably lose again.
I grab my keys and head for the door, pretending I’m not about five seconds from hyperventilating about dinner. I’d shoved the whole thing into a dusty corner of my brain, but now there’s no avoiding it. No escape routes. No hiding in the walk-in fridge.
“Ready?” Alex says behind me.
I turn, heart thumping. His voice is warm and easy, as if tonight is the most natural thing in the world. I nod before my nerves can stage a revolt.
“I should, um… pop home for my wallet,” I say. “And maybe change.”
He studies me for a moment, not judging, just observing, then holds out his hand. Not grabbing or assuming, simply offering.
A choice.
A moment where I can say no and he’ll accept it. And a small, stubborn part of me wants to refuse out of sheer terror, but another part, the whispery hopeful bit I usually ignore, reaches first. I slip my hand into his. His fingers curl lightly around mine, warm and steady. It sends a soft flutter through my chest, unexpected and ridiculous but lovely.
“You look great,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Dinner’s on me.”
“But—”
“No buts.” His thumb brushes the back of my hand once, the sweetest reassurance. “Come on. Do you like Lebanese food?”
“Yes,” I say, surprising myself with how quickly excitement overtakes nerves.
“A new restaurant opened two weeks ago. Thought we’d give it a go,” he says, tugging us gently towards the high street.
As we walk, something strange happens. The longer his fingers stay laced with mine, the less I want to let go. That should terrify me, but instead it settles something in my soul. A steadying weight. A quiet oh.
He asks me about my travels and, before I can stop myself, I’m telling him everything, my wanderlust, the first time I explored Lebanon, the tiny mountain villages, the ancient castles, the food, the culture. Things I never talk about anymore because people usually glaze over with boredom. Not Alex. He listens like I’m saying something worth hearing, and each time his lips twitch into a smile, something warm stirs in me. By the time we reach the restaurant, I’ve talked for nearly ten minutes.
“Oh god. I’m so sorry,” I whisper. My cheeks burn. He hasn’t said anything for ages.
“Why would you apologise?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“Because I was rambling. And people get bored—”
“Emma.” His voice is quiet but firm. “I want to hear the things that light you up. Nothing about that was boring.”
My stomach swoops. No one has ever said that to me. Not without an eye-roll attached.
Inside, the restaurant is warm and golden, the kind of glow that makes everything look a little softer, a little safer. The air is rich with mint, grilled spices and warm bread. The waiter greets us with a smile, and before I can decide whether to hide behind the menu, Alex says cheerfully, “Emma’s the expert tonight.”
My stomach plunges and lifts at the same time.Expert. Me?I want to duck under the table and also beam like a fool.
I manage to order, the words coming back to me like muscle memory. It feels good. Familiar. The waiter grins when I finish and tells me I really do know my stuff, which sends heat rushing to my face. When I glance at Alex, he’s watching me with such open admiration that something small and tightly knotted inside me loosens a little. Not completely. But enough to breathe differently.
When the dishes arrive, Alex tries everything with a level of enthusiasm that should be studied. He nudges plates my way, asks what everything is, repeats the names badly enough to make me laugh, then declares the lemon-mint drink “criminally refreshing” with such seriousness I nearly choke on mine. Bit by bit, the tension leaches out of my shoulders.
Somewhere between explaining the difference between fattoush and tabbouleh and listening to him recount a camping trip involving hailstones, a lost boot and a very angry cow, I realise I’m watching him differently. Not with nerves or fantasy-fuelled distance. Properly watching him. His kind eyes. The warm, surprised laugh he does when something genuinely amuses him. The mischievous spark that lights whenever he’s about to tease me. The steady hands he rests casually on the table. And that way he looks at me like there is nowhere else he’d rather be.
