Graham was wearing a blue jumper that made his eyes pop. He’d trimmed his beard, the edges neat and precise instead of their usual slight wildness, and his hair was actually styled instead of just shoved back from his face. He looked like he’d put in effort.
And he was holding a small bunch of anemones tied artfully with a bow.
“Och, Graham, those are lovely,” I said, reaching for the flowers.
“Who said they were for you?” Graham asked and I froze, my fingers a hairsbreadth away from the stems.
“Oh, I…I…” I was so flustered, and Graham let out a low laugh that had my insides heating.
“Of course they’re for you.” Graham pressed them softly into my hands. “Though their beauty pales in comparison to how you look tonight.”
I turned away to put the flowers in a wee vase before I did something stupid like launch myself at him.
“You clean up all right yourself,” I said, glancing over my shoulder as I filled the vase with water. It was a simple pot I’d made when I was experimenting with a lovely icy blue glaze, surprisingly close to Graham’s eye color now that I thought about it, and one of my favorites, and I took the time to gather my emotions.
Damn it, but the man had a way of getting under my defenses.
Anemones had been the first flowers he’d ever given me.
I was twelve, and he was fourteen, and there’d been some Valentines thing at school—one of those days where everyone hopes someone brings them a wee sweetie or a card. But nobody had gotten anything for me. I’d been sad, sure, but I hadn’t made a fuss of it. But Lachlan must have said something, because later that day, Graham had appeared, a bundle of soft white anemones in hand, and had shoved them at me before disappearing.
The water splashed over my fingers, cold enough to shock some sense back into me, and I plunked the flowers inside the vase. Naturally, they looked as charming as could be, and I sighed.
This was just dinner. Just one meal.
Between good friends.
“Ready?” Graham asked when I finally turned.
“As I’ll ever be.” Which was a lie, really, since I was fairly certain Graham would forever keep me off kilter like a boat with a torn sail being battered about in a gale.
The restaurant, La Stella, was a small Italian place tucked into a converted cottage on the outskirts of the nextvillage. I’d heard about it—everyone in the area had—but I’d never been. It was the kind of place couples went for anniversaries and special occasions, intimate and romantic in a way that almost threatened my poor wee heart that was trying desperately not to notice how good Graham smelled tonight.
“Graham,” I said as he pulled into the small car park. “This is...”
“Fancy? Aye, I believe that’s the point of taking someone to dinner.”
“This is the kind of place people go on dates.”
“Is it?” He turned off the engine and looked at me with exaggerated innocence. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“I have no idea what I’m doing.” Nerves twisted in my stomach, and I matched the movement, twisting the ring at my finger. “This is?—”
I was confusing even myself. What I needed to do was keep Graham out of danger, and at the same time, the only place I wanted to be was curled up in his arms. How was it that the only person who had ever truly made me feel safe was the one port I couldn’t return to in this storm of magick that had entangled my bloodline?
“This is just food, Agnes.” He climbed out before I could argue further, rounding the car to open my door with that same ridiculous chivalry. “Come on, Agnes. One dinner. That’s all I asked for. Let me make it a good one.”
I wanted to keep protesting, but even I was getting tired of myself at this point.
And he was standing there in the soft light from the restaurant windows, hand extended, looking at me like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing. I was so tiredof saying no. So tired of building walls and pushing him away and pretending that my heart hadn’t yearned for him every day since I’d broken it off.
Had it all been an exercise in futility? Did all roads simply lead to this anyway? Confused and uncertain, I bit my lip and then took his hand and let him help me from the car.
The inside of La Stella was everything the outside promised—warm and intimate, with pillar candles flickering in squat olive oil bottles and the smell of garlic and freshly baked bread filling the air. The walls were exposed stone, hung with old photographs of Italian coastlines, and soft music played from hidden speakers.
A dark-haired woman with a warm smile greeted us at the door.
“Mr. Kincaid,” she said. “Your table is ready. Right this way.”
