I scoff, but my feet are already heading towards the front door. “You’re impossible.”
“Yet you’re smiling,” he calls after me.
I pause in the doorway and glance back. He’s leaning against the side of his car like he owns the place, like he’s exactly where he belongs. That familiar half-smile is playing on his mouth, the same one that used to get me in trouble. The one that apparently still does.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say.
He taps an imaginary watch. “Five minutes, Sunshine. Or I’ll come pick your outfit for you.”
“Absolutely not.”
His grin sharpens. “Four minutes.”
I shut the door before he can see me laugh.
We end up at the small Italian place we always went to in high school. Cole holds open the door for me, his hand resting lightly at my lower back as we walk in. The touch is brief—respectful—but it sends a shiver straight up my spine.
High school Cole would’ve laced our fingers together like it was second nature. This version of him seems more careful. Like he’s relearning the shape of me.
The hostess leads us to a corner booth. Cole waits until I slide in before sitting across from me, resting his forearms on the table, eyes on my face like he’s cataloging all of my features.
“You look good,” he says carefully.
My throat tightens. “You don’t get to say that like it doesn’t mean something.”
His mouth tilts. “I think I get to say it exactly because it does.”
I look down at the menu before he sees how that lands.
A waiter comes by with waters and takes our drink order. I barely glance up. “Strawberry lemonade, please.”
Cole’s head snaps toward me. “You don’t like strawberries.”
I shrug, eyes still on the menu. “Yeah. But you do.”
Something soft passes over his face—gone almost as quickly as it appears. He leans back slightly and lifts a finger. “Actually…” He looks at the waiter. “Can we get two raspberry iced teas instead?”
The waiter nods and walks away.
I blink at Cole. “Hey. I ordered…”
“I know what you ordered.” His gaze is steady and warm. “And I also know what you really like.”
I cross my arms. “Since when do you get to override my drink choices?”
He smiles, slow and sure. “Since I’m the one doing things for you today, Sunshine.”
I press my lips together, fighting a grin. “You’re smug.”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
“That’s not what you said the other night when I?—”
“Finish that sentence and I’m leaving.”
He laughs, the sound low and familiar, and something in my stomach eases. Like a knot loosening that I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.”
