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While I voiced my concerns to him about tonight not going well, my real dilemma is what happens if it’s the best date I’ve ever been on. It isn’t as if this could be a weekend fling. Then again, we spent years without running into each other. Sure, there are millions living in LA, but I’ve always had the worst luck seeing someone I know on days when I look like roadkill.

We pull up to the restaurant, and I’m now feeling underdressed. When Wyatt mentioned Mexican food, I assumed he meant a taqueria. There are a few people waiting outside in suits, including the women… and here I am wearing jeggings. So far, not the best date ever. I sigh in relief.

Wyatt gets out first and sprints around the back of the car as I open my door. The icy wind is picking up, making me shiver. Offering his hand, he rushes us inside, and I appreciate the chivalry, if nothing else than to keep me out of the cold.

As the humid heat from the restaurant hits me, Wyatt asks, “Is it warm enough? I can go back to the hotel to get a jacket.”

Being the first words he’s spoken since I knocked on his door, it takes me a moment to process the question, but I reply, “I’m fine, thank you.”

He offers a gentle smile, then guides me a few more feet toward the host stand. The woman behind it asks if we have reservations. We don’t, but she’s able to seat us right away, leading us to the back of the restaurant where there are a few occupied booths and four-top tables.

“Is this all right?” She gestures to the square table beside her.

“Perfect,” he replies, then pulls out a chair for me. I expect him to sit beside me, but he shifts around the table across from me. The hostess sets the menus in front of us and tells us our server will be over shortly. As if he’s reading my mind, he explains, “I’d sit next to you, but then I might not be able to keep my hands to myself.”

Keeping my attention on the menu, I begin reading through the appetizers and don’t look up as I muse, “Oh, I’m sure you’d have no issue behaving.” A flash of my dream skates across my mind—Wyatt’s grip on my thighs as he spreads me wider with his face between my legs. My whole body warms at the thought, and I quickly brush it away, clearing my throat. “So, what’s good here?”

“I have no idea,” he admits, and I’m able to catch him searching the menu without completely shifting his gaze away from me. “Ethan mentioned they have great ceviche, but I don’t eat shrimp.”

“Neither do I. The cactus sounds interesting. I can’t say I’ve ever had it.”

“Why don’t we both order something we’ve never tried before?”

“If this is your ploy to get me to read romance books…” I glance up from my menu with an arched eyebrow.

Wyatt barks out a laugh. “I assure you, it wasn’t. But speaking of, did you start mine?” My eyes widen, and I quickly drop my attention back to my menu. “I’ll take that as a no?”

“It’s a no,” I sigh.

“Is it because you don’t want to read something that’s open-door? I can go through one of my books and point out the chapters you can skip.”

“It’s not that.” Setting down the menu, I sigh, “I have a problem with DNFing. Even when I’m reading a book I can’t stand. So, if I hate yours, I’ll rage-finish it, then lie to your face and say I liked it.”

“So… then rage-finish it, and I’ll never ask your opinion. Just don’t ask me about yours.”

I groan, sitting farther back in my chair. “But now you know that if I don’t say anything, I hated it.”

“Not necessarily.” With a sweet smile, he adjusts his glasses. “You’re allowed to not like my books. My stories don’t define me, just as yours don’t define you. I’m not like the men in my stories—you can despise them, and I wouldn’t care. Do you assume every dark romance author has ties to the mafia? Or that a fantasy author owns dragons? No, because you know they are just made-up tales. Some are more imaginative or better-written than others, but at the end of the day, they are just books. The only reason I would ever judge you by the books you write is if you plagiarized or use AI.”

“You’re right. I don’t know why I’m so hung up on this. So, how about we table the book conversation for now?”

Before he can reply, the server comes over for our drink order. We both order margaritas with salt, and by the time she returns with them, we’re ready to order. I settle on the cactus, while Wyatt tries the beef tongue tacos. Admittedly, they sound disgusting, but when he calls them by their Spanish name with proper pronunciation, my focus shifts away from what he’s about to consume.

“Do you speak Spanish?” I ask, placing my napkin on my lap as our server leaves.

“A little. Just enough to get by. I took a few years in college, but it comes in handy from time to time. What about you?”

“I only took a few years of French in high school. In college, I learned American Sign Language. Sadly, I don’t get to use either often enough.”

I take a small drink of my margarita, and it’s one of the most refreshing ones I’ve had in a while—less sweet than I’m used to. A little moan escapes me as I sip it again, and Wyatt stifles a groan.

“Sorry,” I laugh. “It’s just really good.”

“I agree. Trust me, it’s not that,” he says mostly to himself. Still, it makes my cheeks heat.

The rest of our time is spent like most dates I’ve been on, recounting our childhood and early-adult years. Through dinner, we both avoid how we got into writing, which I appreciate. I’ve been enjoying our conversation and am able to keep my insecurities at bay.

While we’re waiting for the check, I risk asking, “When we were in the hot tub, why didn’t you say anything about… you know?”