“No,” I answered quickly. “You look insane.”
“In the best way,” Dylan added, sitting up. “Good thing you’re with us, because I’m not in the mood to deal with anyone who thinks they can touch you.”
Her fingers skimmed the skirt. “Do you think I’m overdressed?”
“Not at all,” I told her.
She smiled. “Okay.”
We took a taxi to the restaurant I’d found online. The night air wrapped around us as we stepped out of the cab, warm and thick and salty. Path lights glowed along the stone walkway, and the sound of waves carried up from the beach.
Faye walked between us, and her fingers slid into mine. On her other side, Dylan rested his palm on the small of her back.
“This doesn’t feel real,” she admitted. “Every New Year’s I can remember, I’ve been freezing my ass off either in Boston or D.C. in some dress I didn’t pick.”
“You picked this one,” I reminded her.
“And you’re with us,” Dylan added. “A huge upgrade.”
She smiled. “Biggest upgrade.”
“Okay,” Dylan boomed. “New-year rules. No talking about the calendar. No saying the word January. No worrying about being adults until tomorrow.”
“Agreed,” Faye replied.
I raised a brow. “You’re going to last five whole hours without stressing?”
“I’m going to try,” she answered. “If I start spiraling, distract me.”
“We’re pretty good at that,” Dylan said.
She glanced between us. “I’ve noticed.”
We walked into the Lumberyard lot, where the restaurant was located. Cars filled most of the spaces, but the far side opened to a rail that looked over the bay.
“There.” Faye pointed ahead.
The dinner spot sat at the end of the lot. A food truck was permanently parked beside an open deck lined with tables and a small bar. String lights ran from the truck out over the seating area. Past the rail, boats bobbed in Cruz Bay, the dark water streaked with light from town.
Dylan stared. “This is it?”
“This is it,” I confirmed, holding up my phone showing the confirmation screen.
Faye’s gaze shifted from the truck to the deck and the view. “Okay, this is really cool. A parking-lot food truck with a view.”
A small podium sat at the bottom of the deck’s steps. A woman in a black polo looked up from her tablet. “Hi. Welcome. Do you have a reservation?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I stepped up. “Matthewson for three.”
She checked the screen and nodded. “Got you. Happy New Year. You can grab any open table with the reserved sign flipped up. Menus are there. You order food at the truck window, and the bar serves drinks. You can close out your tab with the bartender before you leave.”
“Thank you,” I said.
We stepped onto the deck and found a small table near the rail, with three chairs and a clear view of the bay. Plastic menus sat in the middle, listing starters, mains, and desserts that were prepared in the food truck.
“This is perfect,” Faye decided as she sat. “Casual yet still kind of special.”
“I like it,” I agreed, and I was happy that the president’s daughter approved.
