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I give a shrug and reach for my beer. “The others may or may not include me gritting my teeth for every step I take.”

“I’ve sometimes noticed. You seem to get stiff, and it shows in how you move.” She’s frowning as she stares at me from across the table. “After we’ve been together, I’ve seen you wince when you get up. I wondered if⁠—”

“It’s not that bad,” I interrupt. “Small price to pay to be with the woman I like.”

Her expression softens, even as her tone’s a little scolding. “Rhett, you need to be honest with me about the pain. I’m being serious. Even when we’re in the moment. We can find workarounds. But I don’t want you hurting yourself over me. Be honest about it. Tell me when it happens, okay?”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re a lot sweeter than you pretend you are?” I ask, cocking a brow.

She rolls her eyes. “Answer my question.”

“I have,” I say. “I won’t bury it in the sand again. I’ll let you know next time I feel like I’ve got a knife in my spine. Even if we’re in the middle of having ourselves a good time.”

Before she can react in more disbelief, I reach across the table and lace my fingers through hers. Our gazes hold as the intimate touch sends a current of warmth through me.

Good warmth. The affectionate kind shared between lovers.

Vivica feels it too. I can tell by how her soft fingers curl between mine.

Then she glances over to the table next to ours and notices the party of four not-so-subtly staring.

“They’re watching us,” she murmurs.

I squeeze her hand. “Good. Let’s give them something to stare about.”

I lean across the table and kiss her, capturing her lips in a slow, tender kiss right in the middle of the restaurant.

There’re at least two dozen strangers surrounding us, but I couldn’t give less of a damn.

Vivica Murphy’s my woman—at least in my head—and I’ll shout it in front of everybody in town if I have to.

We separate with shared smiles. Our waitress returns with our bill, and we drain the last of our beer before we head out.

As we stand up to leave, Vivica turns to the people at the next table with a look of pure satisfaction. “Hope you enjoyed the show.”

We make it out to the sidewalk, the night air crisp and cool against our skin. Vivica loops her arm through mine and shakes her head, laughing in more disbelief.

“Why was I against the idea of doing dinner with you again?”

“Because you’re too stubborn for your own good. But I’m glad you came around.”

“Don’t get used to me being agreeable,” she teases. “It’s a limited-time offer.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

We’re walking down the block, snuggled close. I’m busy wondering if this is may be the best night I’ve had since I came to Ironhaven—maybe the best one I’ve had in years—when somebody calls out to us from across the street.

“Vivica? Vivica!”

We both slow to a stop.

The voice belongs to a man, deep even for a baritone. I turn and pick out the man that’s eyeballing us from between the parked cars lining the other side of the street.

About early fifties, bald, with a thick, neatly trimmed beard and dressed in a button-up shirt. He’s staring at Vivica as if he’s expecting her to go running into his arms.

I’ve never seen this man before in my life.

But Vivica clearly has. Her hand loosens around my arm, the rest of her body going rigid at my side.