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Not a date.
I repeat the words like a mantra.
The drive into town is over all too soon, and when I pull up to the Oakwood Café, I notice that I’m about ten minutes early.
Perfect.
I’ll have enough time to say hi to Max, who runs the dinner shift, and settle in to my favorite table. Then it definitely won’t look like a date, because if I get there early, I’m clearly there for business, and I can even pull out my phone and look like I’m reading something related to our conversation. Idly, I wonder if Max will have that veggie pot pie that I’m such a fan of. I gather my coat and my keys, then head on in.
The Oakwood Café, like many businesses in town, is kind of a throwback. The main downtown strip of Oakwood was built in the late 1800s to accommodate the needs of all the miners in the area. At its biggest, Oakwood was a town of nearly fifteen thousand people.
Now, there’s probably around two thousand of us who live here year-round.
The downtown buildings all have big wood fronts that face the street and continue in a rectangle stretching back. Most of the places are live/work combos, since that was handy to people back in the day, so Max lives above the restaurant with his husband James.
I open the door and I’m greeted by the familiar sight of pine floors, pine walls, and an antique tin ceiling with squares pressed in tiny floral designs.
Familiar is good. I come here for dinner at least three nights a week, so I’m definitely feeling at home as I walk in.
Max waves at me from the bar. “Hey, Iris.”
“Hi Max!”
He jerks his head. “Your guest is here.”
I freeze.
Sitting in my usual seat is a familiar hulking shape.
In the split second before Thorne turns, I take him in. He’s wearing a worn, comfortable looking blue-and-green checked flannel. His hair is slicked back and still kind of wet, like he recently got out of the shower. I can see the dark strands of it curling already, like it refuses to be contained.
When he turns, his amber eyes glint at me.
My heart thumps in response.
The edges of his lips twitch, like he’s resisting the urge to smile. “Iris,” he rumbles.
My feet move toward him like they’re not connected to my body. Suddenly, I’m right next to him.
He smells good.
Cedar, I think. Something like cedar, and a deep smell that I can’t place.
“Thorne,” I gulp around the lump in my throat.
He stands, and I watch with wide eyes as he walks over to the opposite chair. “Here,” he says, pulling it out.
Oh.
Um.
Not a date, Iris. This is not a date.
“Thanks,” I say lamely. I sit, not sure if I’m supposed to let him scoot me in, or if I should scoot in…
Thorne’s biceps flex on either side of me, answering my question. He moves the chair like I weigh absolutely nothing.
Notadatenotadatenotadate…
