“I am trying not to.”
“You’re failing.”
“I know.” I covered my mouth with the bouquet. “I’m sorry.”
“You are not.”
“I’m emotionally sorry.”
“That means nothing.”
The truck made another miserable little ticking sound.
I lost the fight and laughed.
Easton stared through the windshield like the universe had become personal. “I had reservations.”
That stopped me faster than it should have.
“At a folded-napkin place?” I asked.
His jaw moved. “Yeah.”
“Easton.”
“It’s fine.”
“It is very obviously not fine.”
“It’s fine in the way that my truck is dead, our reservation is in twenty-seven minutes, and I’m about to Uber to a date I had one chance to do right.”
The laughter drained out of me, replaced by something warmer and worse.
I set the flowers carefully on my lap. “You think you only had one chance?”
He looked over at me.
The frustration in his face cracked just enough for me to see the fear under it.
“I wanted tonight to be perfect,” he said.
My chest tightened.
I reached across the console and took his hand. “Then it is very unfortunate you invited me. Perfect and I have a hostile working relationship.”
His laugh came out despite himself.
“There’s my helpful girl,” he muttered.
I smiled. “Your sexy girl was unavailable. She’s busy judging the vehicle.”
He lifted our joined hands and kissed my knuckles. “I’ll call an Uber.”
“Do not sound like you’re announcing a death in the family.”
“My truck died in formalwear. This is grief.”
The Uber driver’s name was Debra.
