When she reached the sidewalk, she looked up and caught me staring.
“What?” she asked, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Nothing,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “You look good.”
“Just good?”
I opened the passenger door for her. “Get in the car, Truth.”
She laughed—low and knowing—and slid into the seat. The dress rode up slightly as she settled in, showing more of that smooth thigh. I forced myself to look away, closed her door, and walked around to the driver’s side with my jaw clenched tight.
This was going to be a long night.
Compère Lapin was tucked into the Warehouse District, all exposed brick and soft lighting and the kind of quiet elegance that made you feel like you’d stepped into someone’s well-kept secret. The hostess seated us at a corner table near the window, away from the main dining room, where we could talk without being overheard.
Truth looked around, taking in the space with those sharp, intelligent eyes. “This is nice.”
“You been here before?”
“No.” She picked up the menu, scanning the options. “I don’t usually do places like this.”
“Why not?”
She looked up at me over the top of the menu. “Because I’m usually broke, Kaisen. That’s why I agreed to be a surrogate, remember?”
Fair point.
The waiter appeared, took our drink orders—wine for her, bourbon for me—and disappeared again. Truth went back to studying the menu, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration.
“Get whatever you want,” I said.
“I know.”
“I’m serious. Don’t look at the prices.”
She glanced up again, something unreadable in her expression. “You always this generous with women you just met?”
“Only the ones I like.”
That earned me a small smile. She went back to the menu.
When the waiter returned with our drinks, we ordered—she got the duck confit, and I got the redfish—and then we were alone again, just the two of us and the low hum of conversation from other tables.
I took a sip of bourbon and watched her over the rim of my glass.
“So,” I said. “You nervous about next week?”
Her hand stilled on her wine glass. She looked down at it for a moment before answering.
“A little,” she admitted. “I just want it to take this time.”
“What happens if it doesn’t?”
“We try again.” She took a sip of wine. “Until it works.”
I leaned back in my chair, studying her. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself.”
“It’s what I signed up for.”
