“I don’t hate it, I just—” She gestured at the empty plate, the elaborate table setting, the string quartet now playing what sounded suspiciously like Debussy. “I’m going to need a drive-through on the way home.”
Leo was on his feet before he’d consciously decided to move.
“Get up.” He was already pulling bills from his wallet—enough to cover the appetizers, the wine, and the scandal of walking out before the main course.
Junie blinked. “What?”
“We’re leaving.” He held out his hand. “I know a place.”
“Leo, we can’t just?—”
“I’m paying for the meal we didn’t eat. They’ll survive.” He kept his hand extended. Waited. “Trust me?”
She looked at his hand. At his face. At whatever she saw there that made her expression shift from confusion to curiosity to warmth.
“Yeah.” She took his hand. Her fingers were warm. Calloused in places from years of handling cauldrons and stirring rods. “Okay.”
NINETEEN
LEO
Lucinda’s Roadside Diner sat an hour outside Haven Shores, chrome exterior glinting under neon signs. Red vinyl booths patched with duct tape. A jukebox in the corner is playing Patsy Cline.
Junie stood in the parking lot, staring at the flickering sign, and started laughing.
“Leo.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Did you drive us an hour in the wrong direction to eat at a place called Lucinda’s?”
“Yes.”
“A place with a health rating displayed in the window?”
“The B is aspirational. Lucinda doesn’t believe in government oversight.”
“And you eat here? You, the man who alphabetizes his protein bars?”
“I don’t—” He stopped. He absolutely alphabetized his protein bars. “Occasionally. When I need to remember what food is supposed to taste like.”
Junie’s laughter faded into something softer. She was looking at him the way she had in the garden—like shewas seeing past the suit and finding someone unexpected underneath.
“Show me,” she said. “Show me what food is supposed to taste like.”
They ordered cheeseburgers.The kind that dripped grease through wax paper wrapping. Milkshakes thick enough to stand a spoon in. A basket of fries that could feed a family of four.
Lucinda herself took their order—a graying wolf shifter with sharp eyes and no patience for bullshit. She looked at Leo’s suit, at Junie’s dress, at the expensive car visible through the window.
“You again.” Her voice was gravel and cigarettes. “Brought someone this time.”
“She needed a real meal.”
Lucinda’s gaze swept over Junie. Assessing. Whatever she saw apparently passed muster, because her weathered face creased into approval.
“Good taste. Better than your usual.”
“I don’t have a usual type.”
“Everyone has a type. Yours is usually more…” She waved a hand. “Shiny.”
“I’m choosing to be offended by that,” Junie interjected. “I can be shiny. I own sequins.”
