The words settle into my chest like warm honey.
“Seven o’clock,” I repeat, because I don’t know what else to say. “Don’t be late.”
He’s not late. He arrives at 6:52 with wine, flowers, and an expression of careful neutrality that I’ve learned to recognize as his attempt to manage expectations.
“You didn’t have to bring anything.”
“I’m three hundred and fifty years old. Certain manners are ingrained.” He holds out the flowers—a beautiful arrangement of deep purple dahlias and silvery eucalyptus. “These reminded me of you.”
“Purple flowers remind you of me?”
“The contrast. Soft petals and sharp leaves. Beautiful and a little bit dangerous.”
I take the bouquet, hiding my burning cheeks behind the blooms. “I’ll find a vase.”
As I arrange the flower, Mal wanders over to examine the row of photographs.
“This is you?” He’s studying a faded photograph of a teenage me in full competition regalia.
“National Junior Latin champion. Sixteen years old.”
“You were serious even then.”
“My mother didn’t raise quitters.”
He glances at me. “Your mother?”
“She taught me to dance. She als ran the studio before me and passed it down when she retired.” I keep my voice light. “She had... high expectations.”
“Had?”
“Still has, technically. She lives upstate. We talk occasionally.” About the studio. About my failure to live up to her standards. About why I haven’t won any major competitions in five years.
I don’t say that part out loud.
Mal, blessedly, doesn’t push. He just nods and continues his examination of my living space, pausing at the bookshelf.
“Romance novels.”
“Is that a question or an observation?”
“An observation. You have... quite a collection.”
“They’re research.”
“Research.”
“For understanding emotional dynamics and character motivation.” I’m blushing again. “They’re well-written.”
“I’m not judging.” He pulls one from the shelf, and examines the cover which features a shirtless man clutching a windswept woman against a stormy backdrop. “Interesting research material.”
“That one’s actually quite good. The protagonist is a marine biologist who discovers that the mysterious reclusive millionaire buying the land next to her research station is actually a selkie.”
“A selkie.”
“A seal shapeshifter.”
“I know what a selkie is.” He’s grinning now, that infuriating, delighted grin. “I’m just surprised to learn that my practical, disciplined dance instructor reads paranormal romance novels.”
