"Here you are," my mother echoes. "Dating a man who's… How old are you, Nash?"
Oh no.
"Forty-three," Nash says without hesitation.
The number hangs in the air like a bomb.
"Forty-three," my mother repeats. "And you're twenty-six, Claire."
"I'm aware of my own age, Mom."
"That's quite an age gap."
"So?"
"So, it's something to consider. You're in very different life stages. He's—"
"He's sitting right here," I interrupt. "And I'm an adult who can make my own decisions about who I date."
My father sets down his wine glass. "Nobody's saying you can't, sweetheart. We're just concerned. We want to make sure you've thought this through."
"I have thought it through."
"Have you?" My mother leans forward slightly. "Because from where we're sitting, it looks like you moved to the middle of nowhere, took a job that isolates you, and latched onto the first man who showed you attention."
Anger flares hot in my chest. "That's not—"
Nash's hand lands on my knee under the table.
I stop mid-sentence.
His palm is warm through the thin fabric of my dress, and his fingers are splayed wide across my thigh, steady and grounding.
"Claire didn't latch onto anyone," he says, his voice quiet but firm. "I pursued her. Not the other way around."
My mother blinks. "You pursued her?"
"Yeah." He looks at me, and there's something in his eyes I can't read. "Hard not to. She's smart, funny, beautiful. Any man would be lucky to have her attention."
He called me beautiful.
*Beautiful.*
Not cute. Not pretty. *Beautiful.*
And the way he's looking at me right now, with his hand on my knee and his eyes locked on mine, makes me believe he means it.
"Well," my father says, clearing his throat. "That's... good to hear."
My mother doesn't look convinced, but she picks up her menu. "Shall we order?"
My mother orders the most expensive thing on the menu, some kind of fish with a French name I can't pronounce. My father gets steak. I order pasta because it's the only thing I can imagine actually being able to swallow with my stomach in knots.
Nash orders the same steak as my father, and I watch my dad's expression shift slightly. Like ordering the same thing is some kind of test that Nash just passed.
The whole time, Nash's hand stays on my knee.
Not moving. Not sliding up or down or doing anything inappropriate. Just... there. Heavy and warm and impossible to ignore.
