The corner of her mouth twitched, something in her easing by a fraction. “You’re a psychopath.”
“Maybe,” I said with a dry laugh. “But it doesn’t change how I feel.”
The sound of leather-soled shoes against tile drew closer, and we both turned.
“Did either of you have questions about the menu tonight?”
I looked to Emma, ready to follow her lead. She said nothing.
“I think we’re—”
“I’ll have the lobster ravioli, please,” she said, cutting me off.
The waiter and I both turned to her in equal disbelief.
“Really?” I whispered, too caught off guard to care that we had company.
She angled her head, tone cool and steady. “You heard my order.”
“Okay.” I nodded, turning to face the waiter. “I’ll have the sirloin, medium rare. Side of veggies and a loaded sweet potato. Extra sugar on the side.”
He snapped his book shut. “I’ll get this put in right away.”
She quirked a brow.
“I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” I admitted, a flush catching me off guard.
She snorted gently. “So did Read.”
The name drove in like a blade between my ribs. I wanted to look away, to escape the weight of it, but I couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Not when she was staring at me like that—like she was trying to find pieces of the man she’d known inside the stranger across from her.
“Where’d that name even come from?”
“It’s my middle name. Damien Read Holt.”
She blinked. “Really?”
“It was taken from my grandfather’s name—Ridano.” I shrugged, a sheepish grin tugging at my lips. “Wouldn’t have been my first choice, but it made my mother happy.”
“Sounds Italian.”
“Half Italian,” I corrected gently.
“Half Italian,” she echoed, tone appraising. “Read corrected me on that, too.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at my mouth before I could stop it. The memory was vivid—her teasing me during that ridiculous mob documentary, of all things. She’d ordered Mexican that night—steak fajitas, because chicken textures freak her out sometimes—with a whole avocado on the side.
I’d laughed when she’d explained it, already planning a trip to San Miguel de Allende in the back of my mind—her in a windswept dress, sunlight in her hair as we wandered the markets.
“Read likes salsa but hates cilantro.” Her voice softened. “Is that still true?”
I blinked. The images scattering. “Yes.”
Her head dipped. “I hate cilantro, too.”
“I know.”
A tiny smile slid across her face—wistful, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
