“Here, let me just—” Press. “It should come right out—” Press, press. “These things always look worse than they are.”
“You’re spreading it,” I say.
“I’m really not, I just need to—” She blots again, firm and deliberate, holding my gaze for just a half second too long before dropping her eyes back to the dress. “There. See? Nearly got it.”
She hasn’t gotten anything. The stain is twice the size it was thirty seconds ago, and the fabric is pulling where she keeps pressing.
“Okay.” I catch her wrist, gently but firmly. “Thank you. I think that’s enough.”
She looks up at me, and her eyes go glassy, to my shock. Her chin wobbles, and she pulls her wrist back and presses the napkins to her chest instead. “I’m just trying to help,” she says, her voice catching on the last word.
I stare at her.
There is a version of me that wants to tip the entire table over. I breathe through my nose and find the version that won’t. It’s a struggle to hold my temper, but creating a scene is the last thing I need.
“She’s trying to help, Miranda.” Axel’s voice has gone cold. He’s looking at me like I’ve just done something embarrassing in public. “It was an accident. There’s no need to grab her like that.”
“I didn’t grab her.”
“You were quite rough.” The waitress sniffles delicately. A single tear threatens the corner of one eye, and I genuinely cannot believe what I’m witnessing.
“I barely touched you,” I say, keeping my voice level.
“Miranda.” Axel sets his wine glass down with a frown. “She said she was sorry. Can you not make a scene? It’s a dress. I’ll buy you another one.”
The waitress blinks her almost-tears away and straightens up slowly, folding the napkins in her hands, and looks at the damage with a pained expression. “I really am so sorry.” Her mouth curves just slightly. “That color was beautiful on you.”
Was.
I pick up my bag. “I’m leaving.”
“Miranda.” Axel is on his feet, and his voice has shed whatever warmth it had left. “We haven’t even eaten yet.”
“I know.”
“Sit down.”
“I’m going home,” I say tightly. “I’ve had enough.”
His hand closes around my wrist. Not gently. “I spent a lot of money tonight. Don’t act like this.”
I pull. He doesn’t let go.
“I told you,” I say quietly, “I didn’t want to come to this restaurant. I wanted to go somewhere cheaper.”
“And I said no because I wanted to take you somewhere nice.” His grip tightens. “So either you sit down and we eat, or you pay for the meal yourself. Or”—his voice drops—“you calm down and we go back to my place and forget about this.”
The humiliation burns through me, hot and sudden. I pull at my wrist again. He holds on.
Something hits the table. Two crisp hundred dollar bills, slapped down flat.
An arm comes around my waist, firm and immediate, and I’m pulled clean off my feet and into someone’s side. I already know who it is before he speaks.
“Dinner’s covered.” Grayson’s voice is right at my ear, low and utterly calm. “I think I’ll take the lady home. Come on, Miranda.”
“What?” Axel is on his feet, his chair scraping back, jaw tight with fury. “Miranda, who is this?!”
Grayson is already moving, one hand around my waist, steering me through the dining room without so much as looking back. I’m too shell-shocked to say anything. We push through the side exit, and Ethan is standing there in the corridor. As soon as he sees me, he beams.
