It’s practically a slip—silky black material with thin little straps. But then there’s a layer of dark blue tulle on top, with silvery stitches scattered all over. It reminds me of the night sky full of stars.
The doorbell rings throughout the house, and my lips curl up at the corners. I cannot believe Waylon is ringing his owndoorbell to keep this authentic. I run into the closet to grab my black pashmina in case it’s cold out later and then head to the front door.
I take a very deep breath, calming myself before I see him. I pull the door open and lose all control of my facial expressions. My jaw is slack, and when I look down to see where it fell, I’m met with shiny shoes. They’re polished to perfection.
Speaking of perfection, Waylon’s suit fits so well, I want to cry. He’s trimmed all the hair from his neck, and his hair is lightly slicked back. I’ve never seen him like this. I imagine it’s what he’ll look like at the wedding, too, which makes me incredibly happy.
He smiles at me, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to my lips.
“Hello, darlin’,” he says, holding out a bouquet of dark red roses.
“Thank you.” I take them into my arms as I inhale their lovely but familiar scent. “I have this rose oil at work that I sometimes dab under my nose when I’m working. It helps mask the smell of death.”
“Whoa,” he laughs nervously.
“I’m sorry, that was such a terrible thing to say out loud.” I laugh under my breath, realizing this may have been part of the reason Darcy told me I needed a roommate. I really do forget how to talk to people sometimes.
“No, it’s fine. It surprised me a little, but it’s really fine. You should be able to say whatever you want in front of me. Oranyone, for that matter. If they care about you, they’ll accept it as part of who you are.”
He holds out his arm to me, so I set the flowers down inside and loop my hand over his forearm.
“You look gorgeous, by the way,” he says, as he opens the truck door for me.
“Thank you. So do you. You look handsome, I mean.”
“Oh no, I’m gorgeous, you said it yourself.”
I laugh as he shuts my door. I don’t know where we’re going at all, and when I think of the fancy restaurants in the city, there are quite a few to choose from. But I know Waylon well enough to know it’s going to be delicious. I didn’t eat lunch today just so I could be good and hungry when we arrived.
We pull out onto the road and he turns on some music but keeps the volume low. Still, neither of us finds a need for words. The sun is setting in front of us, casting everything in an orange glow. It’s almost as if we’re driving right into it for a little while, until we get onto the highway toward downtown.
When we arrive, Waylon steps around the truck and opens the door for me. He hands his keys to a valet and walks me into Saffron Bistro. And let’s just say my flabbers are ghasted because I thought this place was impossible to get into. At least in this calendar year. Last I heard, there was a solid six-month waitlist, and I would have assumed it got worse after that.
“How did you get us into this place on such short notice?” I whisper.
Waylon cocks his head to the side, acting more smug than usual. God, if he wasn’t so hot that would be so annoying.
“I’m a man of many secrets and lots of connections,” he says, grabbing his lapel.
I roll my eyes, giving him the universal look for “cut the crap” and nudge my elbow into his ribs.
“You know, most of our tattoo clients are pretty cool people. Some of them are firefighters, others are realtors, and some are even chefs at fancy places, who are happy to accommodate you at the last minute,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.
I watch him give his name to the hostess, who perks up when she realizes who he is. She leads us to a secluded table in the corner.
Waylon pulls out my chair and tucks it back in as I sit. The waiter lights the candle in the center of the table, as he tells us his name is Ben and offers a wine list. Waylon takes it from him, which is good because I know nothing about wine unless it’s white and costs nine dollars for the whole bottle.
I look down at the food menu and gulp. There are no prices listed beside anything. How do people order? Just as I begin to internally panic, Waylon’s foot presses up against mine, and all the buzzing just dissipates.
Waylon points to a wine selection, Ben nods and leaves, and I’m wondering if the chicken is the cheapest thing on the menu like at most places.
“So, what looks good to you?” he asks, beginning to look down at the menu.
“Uh, I’m not sure.” My eyes scan the options. The dishes are limited, which I know is a normal thing for a place like this. I want to remark about the lack of prices, but I’m worried that will make me look even less experienced than I already do.
“Angelo tells me the steak is his proudest creation. It’s sliced thin over a bed of pasta with herbs and parmesan and some kind of pesto stuff on top,” he says.
“Who’s Angelo?”
