“No,” I say aloud. “I think that covers it.”
“In that case,” he says, pushing back his chair and standing, “when can I take you on a date?”
I stand too, nerves flaring back to life. “Um. Sam has a birthday party next Friday. It’s a sleepover.”
He nods, stepping closer. Too close? Not close enough? “We play Montreal on Thursday. Friday works.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice betraying me by squeaking.
“Have dinner with me on Friday?”
“I’d love to.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ELLIOT
There area number of frugal commandments I live my life by.
Best before dates, unlike expiration dates, are merely a suggestion.
The best time to shop for winter coats and boots for an ever growing child is March when seasonal items hit the clearance racks.
And if I can’t pronounce the restaurant’s name, I probably can’t afford to eat there.
I’m breaking rule number three just by setting foot inFriandise.
The atmosphere feels a littletoofancy for my tax bracket.High ceilings stretch toward glittering chandeliers, marble floors gleam under the golden light, and soft music hums from somewhere unseen—violins, maybe. Everything smells faintly of butter and money. The air itself feels polished. I tighten my worn wool coat around my waist, a poor attempt to disguise how utterly out of place I feel.
When the maître d’ approaches with a professional smile and asks to take my coat, my first instinct is to clutch it tighterto my body. It’s my armour and no you can’t have it! I don’t, of course. With great reluctance, I unbutton it, one by one, and start to shrug it off.
He steps forward to help, but Arthur gets there first. I swear there’s a flicker of challenge in his eyes when he meets their gaze. Whatever silent contest they’re having, Arthur wins; the maître d’ takes a full, respectful step back.
Arthur’s hands brush my arms as he eases the coat from my shoulders, his fingertips grazing bare skin where my sleeve slips down. The contact sends a shiver up my spine despite the restaurant’s warmth. He passes both our coats to the maître d’, his jaw set in quiet satisfaction.
The man signals to someone, and a host appears to lead us to our table. “Follow me,” he says with an encouraging smile aimed at me. I wonder if he knows I’m out of my depth.
I fall into step behind him, trying to walk like someone whose shoes actually fit. My old heels—vintage, but not in the cool way—pinch my toes with every step. As I try to subtly wiggle my big toe for relief, I wobble. Arthur’s hand comes to rest at my waist, steadying me. His palm is firm, his thumb brushing the fabric of my dress just long enough to make me forget how to breathe.
“You okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my neck.
“Yes,” I say quickly, my laugh too high. “New shoes.”
Not true. But he doesn’t need to know that.
The host stops at a table tucked into the far corner of the restaurant. It looks like something out of an old black-and-white romance film, the kind you watch alone at midnight with a heaping bowl of ice cream and a side of self-pity. Candlelight pools across the white linen tablecloth, reflecting off crystal glasses. The soft notes of a string quartet melt through the air. It’s a fairy tale.
And I’m fairly certain I’m in the wrong story.
When the host pulls out my chair, Arthur’s expression tightens, but he doesn’t interfere. I sit, and the man pushes my chair in before setting down two leather-bound menus. “Your server will be with you shortly,” he says before gliding away.
“This is?—”
“You look?—”
We both stop. Then laugh. The sound is nervous, overlapping, and too loud for such a refined place.
Is it possible Arthur’s just as nervous as I am? Could he be fighting the same fluttery panic—only with a better poker face?
